


Burnin' For You

by hoosiergirl81



Series: Wayward Son [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Angst, F/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-01-31 22:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 59,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12691242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosiergirl81/pseuds/hoosiergirl81
Summary: When an ancient, powerful being from Hell leaves a trail of burned bodies in Ohio, Sam, Dean, and Ruthie naturally go to stop it—never suspecting that an old enemy has resurfaced. But this new adversary is different than any they've hunted yet, and their arrival plays right into his hand. And while they now have more to live for than ever before, they also have much more to lose.Conclusion of the Wayward Son series





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdschmidtwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdschmidtwriter/gifts).



Randy Collins lowered his chainsaw and wiped his dripping forehead. It was only mid-June, but the heat and humidity were making it feel like August. Last night’s storm had knocked a big dead oak across State Road 40, blocking traffic. Most cars turned around and found detours, but plenty of folks in trucks and SUVs had just gone around it, cutting through Tom White’s soybean field. Tom was hopping mad, but too old to clear it himself. Randy surveyed his work. He’d sawed off all the branches, cut them into manageable pieces, and piled them alongside the road. Then he’d cut the fallen oak into fireplace-sized logs. He’d chop them at home. Maybe in the morning, when it wasn’t so damn hot. Now, to get them all off the road and into his pickup. He started with the largest log, hoisting it with a grunt and heaving it into the bed of his truck. After five more minutes of work, he had half the wood loaded. 

Something in the distance caught his eye. A woman was walking toward him along the side of the road. He tossed another log into the truck, then leaned against the tailgate and watched her approach. He recognized her blond hair and tanned legs. Lori Hutchinson. They’d gone to high school together, and stuck around Coalton after graduation. “Hey Lori,” he called. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Walking. Until I find a new vehicle.”

“Did you car break down? You need a ride?” He’d love to give her a ride. Dreamed about it since they were teenagers. 

She stopped in front of him and seemed to consider his words. Her flushed skin gleamed with sweat beneath the midday sun; her hair stuck in wet wisps to the sides of her face. She adjusted the strap of a leather messenger bag hanging from her shoulder. “Yes. My vehicle is breaking down quickly. I’m going to need a new one very soon.”

“Uh…okay. Where you headed?”

“I need to go somewhere with more people.”

“Oh. So you’re moving?” He tried to hide his disappointment. People left Coalton all the time. He thought Lori would be one of the ones who stayed there forever, like him. “Country life finally catching up with you?”

She didn’t answer. Her face had turned redder and sweatier just since they’d started talking. She glanced around, looking distracted.

“So, uh, you hear about that warehouse fire over in Chillicothe?” he asked.

“I was there.”

“No way! Wait…you mean you were in Chillicothe, or you saw the fire?”

“I was at the warehouse.”

Randy waited to see if she’d laugh. She must be messing with him. But she kept looking around at nothing in particular. “So you saw the fire. You don’t mean you were actually _in_ the warehouse.”

“Yes I was.”

Questions buzzed through his head faster than he could ask them. “But why? What the hell were you doing in there?”

“Experimenting.” She said it casually, still no wink or anything to indicate it was a joke.

Randy didn’t know how to respond. Surely she hadn’t started the fire. The newspaper said the fire inspector couldn’t figure out what had started it, or how it had burned at ten thousand degrees. Was Lori getting into drugs or something? She was too smart for that, wasn’t she? “Experimenting with what? And how did you get out of the warehouse?”

Instead of answering him, she looked past him, at his truck. “Is your truck a manual transmission or automatic?”

“What? It’s automatic. Why?”

“Good. I can manage with an automatic; I’ve had a little practice. I don’t have time to learn manual. I must find somewhere with more people. I also need a vehicle that will last more than forty-eight hours. They’ve been very disappointing so far.”

“Lori, what are you talking about? You drove that little foreign stick shift our senior year.” Maybe she _was_ on drugs. She looked overheated, too. Heat stroke, maybe? “C’mon, let’s go over there into the shade.” He led her to a still-standing oak not far from the stump of the fallen one. “It’s a scorcher today, huh?”

She looked at him with a curious tilt of her head. “You think this is hot?”

“You don’t?”

She snickered as a rivulet of sweat trickled from her forehead down her cheek. Her shirt clung to her curves. It was sexy, despite the big wet spots darkening her armpits. But her face was still getting redder. 

“How about you just hang out here while I load up the rest of this wood? Then I’ll take you back into town and we’ll get you some cold water.”

She didn’t respond. Just stood there in the shade, gazing down the road. Randy went to the nearest log and hoisted it into his arms. He decided to try conversation again, to see if the shade was helping her out at all. “Hey, you hear about those people burning up for no reason? Spontaneous combustion, or whatever they call it? The guy in Waverly City just burnt up right in the middle of the street. Crazy, right?”

“Yes.” Lori held her hand up and turned it slowly, examining it. “I had no idea human bodies were so flimsy. And flammable.” She lifted her gaze out over the waving soybeans. “Souls can burn and burn forever.”

Despite the muggy heat, a chill tingled Randy’s spine. Something was definitely wrong with her. He’d never heard her talk this way before. Shade wasn’t helping. He tossed the log into the truck bed and went back to her. The rest of the wood could wait. “Lori, we need to get you to the clinic. You’ve got sunstroke or something.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She looked at him with sudden interest. “What do you want most in the world?”

“What? Right now, I want you to get in the truck.”

“What do you most fear?”

“Lori—”

“What would you be willing to do to attain what you want most? To avoid what you most fear? Would you sell your soul?” A hungry, feverish spark lit her eyes. She opened the flap of her bag, reached inside, and pulled out some sort of paper cylinder. She unrolled it, and Randy saw writing in black ink covering one side. 

“What is that?” he asked, an uneasy feeling fluttering in his stomach. The weird way she was talking didn’t help.

“A contract. I’ve copied a basic template. See the empty spaces? We just fill in your terms.” She panted for a moment, seemingly out of breath. “What do you want most? Money? Fame? Women? Name it.” She pulled a feather quill from the bag and held it out to him.

Stunned, he took it. As he did, he saw the blisters spreading along her arm. He looked back up at her in alarm. Her face was so red it practically glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, nose, and cheeks. 

“Lori, we have to get you to a doctor right now.”

She shook her head. “We won’t make it back to town. There’s not time.” She pushed the quill toward him again. “What do you desire? Just write it down and sign your name.” She sidled a little closer. “The contract must be sealed with a kiss. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I saw the way you looked at this body when I arrived.” 

Randy stepped backward. Heat was radiating off Lori’s skin, and as he watched, fresh blisters crept up her throat. What the hell was wrong with her? She was burning up and talking crazy. Like, mental patient crazy. “Look, something’s really wrong with you. You need help. Come on, let’s get in the truck, okay?”

“No. I will need the truck.” The white blisters multiplied, streaming up her throat, over her jaw, onto her face. Her eyes flashed. “There’s no more time.” She stuffed the parchment and quill back into the bag and tossed it twenty feet away, into the grass alongside the road. “Get back. I’ll need your vehicle unscathed.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

More crazy talk. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with my truck, or what you’re on, but you gotta listen to me. You need help—”

“Get away from me!” she screamed, and her eyes flew open. 

They were red. Not her irises—those were gone. Each eye was a solid, blazing, fiery red, with vertical black slits in the centers. 

Randy stumbled back, heart jammed in his throat, and fell onto the grass. He crabwalked backward on badly shaking limbs, desperate to get away from her but unable to stop looking. Roadside gravel dug into his palms, then the asphalt burned them, but he kept backing away. Steam and smoke started pouring off her skin, obscuring her face. Randy bumped into the rear tire just as she threw her head back, face to the sky, mouth open wide. A blinding flash; he blinked, then there was a pillar of roaring fire where Lori had been standing. 

He threw an arm over his face to shield himself from the wall of scorching heat, but through squinting eyes he saw something else: a thick, twisting column of brick red smoke. It shot out from the pillar of flame—straight at him.

He opened his mouth to scream, and the raging smoke flooded into him.

It had found a new vehicle. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Should we get up?” Ruthie asked, her arm draped across his chest. 

“Why?” Dean couldn’t see any reason to move from this spot.

“I’m hungry. I need to pee. And we’re supposed to go save the world.”

“Same old, same old.” What time was it anyway? Dean reached for his watch on the side table. Two in the afternoon. Huh. Guess time really did fly when you were having fun. 

They’d fallen asleep last night, exhausted, in each other’s arms, but in the early morning hours a nightmare had woken him. He’d dreamed she was gone, off to the bus station, unable to deal with him and his wall anymore. In the instant after he woke up, he thought it was true, that her forgiving him had been the dream. He bolted upright and felt around for her in a panic. “Ruthie!”

“I’m here,” she murmured, reaching up, taking his face in her hands. “I’m here.”

He sagged with relief and let her guide his head down to rest on her chest. She trailed her fingers lightly through his hair, and soon her rhythmic breathing lulled him back to sleep.

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. “You relax. I’ll make us some food.”

Her eyebrows arched high. “Really?”

“Hey, I can cook. Well, I can cook one thing. Just trust me.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

Her dark eyes told him she meant it, and not just about food. He’d never get tired of this: lying close to her, seeing his reflection in her eyes, and not hating what he saw. 

He kissed her forehead, then her lips, before climbing over her and pulling on his discarded jeans from the night before. “I gotta go into town to get a couple things. I’ll be back.”

“Okay. I think I’ll have a shower.”

Dean hesitated, thinking it would be nice to join her. But she was hungry. Here was his first post-wall chance to put her first, to think about what _she_ wanted. He took one last look at her dark, messy hair spilled across his pillow, her bare, olive-skinned arms lying on his sheets, and gave her a smile before shutting the door behind him.

He headed downstairs, feeling like he could skip the steps and just float down to the main floor if he wanted. Sam was going to be smug as hell, but Dean didn’t even care. Sam had earned it. He’d called this a long time ago. Besides, nothing could bring him down from this high right now. 

_Ruthie_.

She filled his mind, his soul. Last night had been a 10.0 on the Richter scale, breaking apart the framework of his old life and setting the foundations for a new one. One where he wouldn’t hold her at arm’s length anymore. Where she was a part of him. 

He’d fought this for so long, but that Dean was a different person. Now, he knew without a doubt that he needed her. That he couldn’t let her go. Even though there was more risk now, of pain and loss, it was worth it. She was worth it. 

He didn’t see Sam as he passed the kitchen. He wasn’t in the library, either. Hiding out in his room maybe? Dean stepped through the doorway into the garage and halted. Baby was gone. _What the hell, Sam?_ Dean pulled out his phone to call him, and saw the text from four hours earlier.

_There’s food in the fridge. I’ll be back in a day or two. Enjoy your honeymoon._

Dean shook his head and smiled to himself. Sam was happy for him. Whatever Dean and Ruthie were now, Sam was cool with it. He’d left them food and given them space. Dean owed him one.

He opened the fridge and quickly spotted a carton of ground beef and a head of lettuce. There were a couple onions and tomatoes on the counter, along with a package of good hamburger buns. Sam. He’d figured Dean would want to cook for Ruthie. Dean put a skillet on the stove to heat, and hummed while he tore the plastic wrap off the ground beef.

A damp-haired Ruthie appeared just as he flipped a perfectly done patty through the air with his spatula. He scooped it up and slid it cheesy side up onto a bottom bun before layering on a thick slice of tomato and a crisp leaf of lettuce. He placed the top bun as she settled into her chair. She inhaled deeply. “Smells good.” Her eyes popped when she spotted her plate. “Wow, you made these?”

“Told you. I can cook one thing.”He grabbed his own plate and took a seat beside her. 

“None for Sam?” she asked. 

“Sam took off. I think he wanted to give us some space.”

Her cheeks colored. “You don’t think this will be. . .weird for him, do you?”

“Nah. He’s cool with it. Hell, he’s been rooting for it like a JV cheerleader.”

“Good. I never, never want to come between you two.”

“Not worried about it. Here, eat.” He waited to take his first bite. He wanted to see her reaction. 

She had to use both hands to pick up her burger. She opened wide and took a giant bite. The lettuce crunched, and a little dribble of ketchup escaped onto her bottom lip. Her eyes went huge, then closed as she chewed. A happy moan rumbled behind her closed mouth. She swallowed. “Dean, this is seriously the best burger I’ve ever had.”

His chest puffed out. “I know.”

They stuffed their faces in comfortable silence, apart from her occasional exclamations of praise for his burger-cooking skills. After she’d finished her last bite, she leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you. I’ll do the dishes.”

“No, you sit there and enjoy the afterglow.” He took their dishes to the sink and rinsed them. “So. Looks like we’ve got some time to kill. Just the two of us. Here in the bunker. Alone.” He glanced sideways at her. “What should we do?”

Ruthie looked impressed. “Again? Already?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

She laughed. “Well I’m way too full.”

“Wuss.” 

Another laugh, like apple pie. Man, he just couldn’t get enough of her. 

He went back to the table, stood straight, crossed his arms. “Alright, if you’re gonna wuss out, then I challenge you to a game of poker.”

She sat back and crossed her arms, too. “Are you sure about that?”

He nodded. “Strip poker.”

Her lips twitched. “You’re on.”

They went out into the library, and he got a deck of cards from a drawer before sitting across from her. “One lost hand equals one lost piece of clothing,” he said. 

“Winner’s choice or loser’s choice?” she asked.

“Winner’s.” He shuffled the cards and dealt the first hand.

Forty-five minutes later, he was sitting bare-assed on the hard wooden chair, down to just his socks—although his left foot was bare. He’d strategically relocated that sock.

Ruthie, still fully clothed, eyed him solemnly over her cards. He had no clue what was in her hand, but his was crap. He was hoping his luck would change, that this time she’d fall for his bluff and fold.

“I call,” she announced, and lay down a pair of tens. 

“Dammit.” He tossed his cards onto the table, then threw her his sock. The one from his foot. “How do you do it?”

“You mean how do I utterly destroy you?” Her poker face melted into a grin. “I read you. Your tells.”

“What tells?”

She came around to his side of the table, smirking, and climbed into his lap. She had the decency not to mock his sock. “But if I tell you, you might fix them. And I don’t like being cold. Or losing.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “I gotta know.”

She considered for a moment, then traced a finger along his jaw, from just below his ear down to his chin. “You clench your teeth for a second when you’re bluffing. I can see it right through here.” She reached up and touched the corner of his eye. “And when you have a good hand, you narrow your eyes while you’re looking at the cards. Then you open them wide and look straight at me.”

He looked straight at her now. It used to bother him, how she could see inside him. How she knew what was in his head without him saying a word. But not anymore. She could see anything she wanted. He wouldn’t hold anything back. “How about now?” he asked. “What am I thinking?”

She swallowed, then took his face in her hands, leaned in, and kissed him. “The same thing I am.” She stood, took his hands, and led him back upstairs to his room.

Afterward, he lay facing her, still amazed she was real, she was here, that this was happening. She gazed back with an expression of complete contentment. The spokes of gold glowed in her dark eyes. He reached out and stroked her hair. He couldn’t get his fill of touching her, feeling her presence. Making up for lost time. Sam was right. What the hell had he been thinking, avoiding this? Avoiding her?

There weren’t many constants in his life. Only a couple unshakeable truths. One, he was a hunter. Two, he’d do anything for his brother. And now three: He belonged with Ruthie. He knew it in his bones. 

Her soft voice broke the silence. “You can say it. It’s okay. I already know.”

Of course she did. Still, that made it easier to actually say the words. His voice didn’t even shake. “I love you.” He brushed her smooth cheek with his fingers. “God, I love you so much.”

She scooted forward and snuggled into him. He wrapped his arms around her. With her face against his chest, her voice was muffled, but he understood each word. 

“I love you, too.”


	3. Chapter 3

The thing that looked like Randy Collins drove his truck into the parking lot of the EZ Mart gas station in Jackson. A symbol in the dashboard was telling him the vehicle required more fuel. He hadn’t yet learned how to do that. He’d ask someone here to show him. Humans really were resourceful. Their bodies were frail, practically useless, merely temporary vehicles for their souls. But they’d found ways to transport themselves, communicate over long distances, preserve images of themselves—making the most of their pitifully short lifespans. He hadn’t meant to emerge in a place with so few of them. 

He parked beside one of the boxy-looking contraptions and exited the truck. A heavyset man with gray hair covering only half of his head stood nearby. A tiny door stood open near the rear of the man’s white car, and a handle of some sort hung from it. A black hose ran from the handle to one of the tall metal boxes. 

“Will you show me how to do that?” 

The man glanced up. “How to do what?”

He pointed Randy Collins’s finger at the handle. “That.”

The man looked at the handle, and back at Randy’s face. “You don’t know how to put gas in your truck?”

“No. Will you show me?”

The man’s eyebrows rose, but he came over to the truck and opened the driver’s side door. “First, you open this guy up.” He pushed a button, and a tiny door on the side of the truck popped open. The man went to the tall box and pulled out the handle of a hose. He glanced sideways at the thing wearing Randy. “You mind me asking how it is you don’t know how to gas up a car, son? You look a little old for that.”

“I just acquired this truck today.”

“Not much difference between cars when it comes to putting gas in.”

“I see. That is good to know.”

The heavyset man slid the handle’s long nozzle into a hole beneath the little door. “How you paying?”

“Paying?”

“Card or cash?” The man’s tone tightened. “I’m showing you how to pump it, but I’m not paying for it.”

Of course. Money. He was quickly learning how important it was to humans. He’d been surprised, because money was usually the last thing on their minds when their souls were burning. “Where do people usually keep their money?”

The man’s forehead filled with wrinkles. “Wallet, I guess. Buddy, you feeling okay?”

He looked down at his new vessel, clad in blue jeans and a sawdusty t-shirt. “Yes. I feel good for now. I expect this body to last longer than the last one.”

The man’s eyebrows traveled up through the wrinkles, crowding them together. “Okay. Well, mine’s done pumping, so…” He started back toward his car.

“Wait. I’d like to repay you. What do you want most?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I have the power to give you anything. What would you like?” He leaned into the truck and grabbed his leather bag. “Money? Power?” He pulled out a roll of parchment.

The balding man kept backing away. “You don’t have to repay me. It’s okay.”

“No, I wish to. All I need is your signature.” He nodded toward the man’s large belly. “Do you fear you’ll die of heart disease? I can guarantee you won’t. How many more years do you desire?”

The man turned his back and hurried to his car. He replaced the gas pump and drove away. 

Randy Collins’s eyes watched him go. His current approach wasn’t working. He’d only collected one contract so far, from a drunken young woman at a bar who’d seemed to think the whole thing was a very funny joke. She’d sold her soul for a pitcher of beer.

He climbed into the truck and dug around until he found a few crumpled bills in the console. Carrying them into the station, he approached the counter and a gap-toothed cashier with frizzy red hair. “I require fuel,” he said. 

She took the wrinkled bills and smoothed them. “Just four dollars, then?”

He nodded while he pulled a contract from his bag. “Would you like to do something funny?”

She didn’t look up from the cash drawer as she deposited the money. “Nope. I’m on the clock.”

He hesitated a moment. He didn’t see any clock. “But wouldn’t it be funny if you signed this contract and sold your soul?”

Now she looked up with narrowed eyes. “What’re you talking about?”

He unrolled it and showed her the writing. “See? You just write in what you want in exchange here, and then sign down here. Then we will both laugh about it.”

“Did you say sell my soul? Like, to the devil?”

He straightened. “No. I’m finding that’s a common misconception. He’s currently in no position to enter into a binding agreement such as this, being confined to the Cage. I’m the promisor in this transaction, as you’ll see in section 2a—”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” she snapped, “but I’m a Christian woman, and I don’t mess around with that sort of stuff. Now you get on outta here.”

He rolled up the parchment, crumpling it in the middle with his clenched fist. Her sharp little eyes glared at him as he exited.

How long had he held the crossroads demons in contempt for their incompetence? Their failure to produce a satisfactory harvest of souls? He’d been certain they were lazy and unmotivated. Mismanaged. Rendered out of touch with their true home by too much time “topside,” as they called it. He’d grown hungry, so hungry for new souls. For succulent, substantive ones rather than the dreck he’d subsisted on for eons. Already, the excitement of securing his first soul had worn off. The laughing, drunken woman was little better than his standard fare.

How long had he stayed put, like a trained dog, waiting to be tossed table scraps? No longer. He craved a richer experience. He’d taken matters into his own hands. How hard could it be?

Clearly, he’d underestimated the difficulty of the job. At this rate, he’d have to stay here for a century before he could gather enough to satisfy him.

_No._ He was not some bottom rung crossroads huckster. He was ageless, elemental. He knew enough of human nature after millennia of hearing their cries, consuming their pain, thriving on their agony. He would find a way to bend these weak creatures to his will. He would own them forever.

A soft hissing jolted him from his reverie. The skin of Randy Collins’s neck and face was steaming. Curse these frail vessels. 

What did the crossroads demons call them? Meat suits. Crude, but accurate. He’d had this one for only a few hours. It shouldn’t be showing outward signs of wear already. Perhaps it couldn’t contain his heightened anger. He’d have to control himself. He must learn how to channel his power through these vessels without destroying them. He needed more practice; the warehouse had proven that. 

After several failed attempts, he managed to pump fuel into the truck, though not without spilling some of the foul-smelling liquid onto his clothes and the ground. While he waited, watching the numbers on the box roll upward, a black and white car marked Jackson Police Department rolled up beside his truck. A man and woman, each in uniform, exited and approached him.

“Hello, sir,” the man said. “We had a call about a suspicious person here at the station. May I see some ID?”

Randy Collins’s eyes flicked toward the building. The red-haired cashier stood scowling as she watched them, her arms crossed. He turned to the policeman and smiled. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Officer. I was merely joking with the lady.”

“Alright. I’m sure we can clear this all up. May I see your ID?”

“I’ll be glad to show it to you if I can locate it. Where do people usually keep their ID?”

The officers exchanged a look. “You forgot where you keep your license?” the woman asked.

The cashier’s glare prickled along his neck; these impudent questions stoked his inner furnace. “I forget nothing. You don’t know who you are speaking to.”

“Right, that’s why we want to see your ID,” the man said. “What’s your name, sir?”

He had just decided he needed a new strategy, as well as practice, had he not? He drew himself up to Randy Collins’s full height. “I am Azar the Eternal. And unless you consent to sell me your soul, I shall destroy you.”

The man looked at his partner, who rolled her eyes. “I told you it would be one of those days,” she said.

“Okay, sir,” the man said. “I’m gonna ask you to put your hands on the truck while I check you for weapons.”

“Is that your price?” Azar asked. “In exchange for your soul, you wish me to consent to be searched?”

“Nobody’s selling anything, sir, and if you don’t comply, I will arrest you.”

“So, you prefer destruction. I urge you to reconsider. A simple signature…” He reached into his bag for a contract.

“Stop!”

“Put your hands up!”

The officers each shouted, pulling their weapons from their hips and pointing them at Randy Collins’s chest. As if their playthings could harm him in the least. 

“I see you are determined. Very well.” He flung the bag away, into a scrubby patch of grass across the road. The officer was yelling again, shouting orders, but Azar was focusing his power. Slowly, he raised his hand toward the man. He controlled his fury, concentrated it, aimed. A stream of liquid flame shot from his outstretched hand onto the man, instantly engulfing him. The woman screamed before she, too, was alight. 

Randy Collins’s lips smiled, but only for an instant. The intense heat ignited the foul substance in his clothes. White flames jumped to the spilled gasoline and raced along the ground to the truck, up the trail of dripped fuel to the still open tank and the pump resting inside it. 

The explosion drowned out Azar’s roar of frustration and blasted his vessel into minuscule charred pieces. Fire and black smoke billowed high into the evening sky. 

A roiling column of brick red smoke shot away into the dusk, unseen, in search of a new vehicle once more.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam knocked hard on the bunker door before opening it. He stuck his head inside, hand over his eyes, and shouted, “I’m back!” He waited a moment before heading downstairs to the library. “Dean, Ruthie, I’m back,” he called. Past the shining tables, toward the kitchen, gaze glued to the floor. “Guys, I’m home.” He nearly bumped into Ruthie on her way out the kitchen door.

“Sam!” She hugged him, then drew back and gave him a twinkly-eyed smirk. “Hey, are you back? I’m starting to get the idea you’re home.”

Sam spotted Dean in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smirking at him just like Ruthie. 

Sam’s cheeks heated. “I just didn’t want to, uh, surprise you.”

“No need to worry,” she said. “We just finished lunch. Want me to make you a sandwich?”

“No thanks. I ate on the road.” He followed her into the kitchen and stood by the table while she cleared up their dirty dishes and started washing them in the sink. “So, I wasn’t planning to come back until tomorrow or the next day, but it’s looking like we better get to Ohio.”

“What happened?” Dean and Ruthie asked in unison. 

“Yesterday, another spontaneous combustion. Then a few hours later, a gas station exploded. Three people dead. Two were police officers.”

“Damn,” Dean said. “How many bodies we up to now?”

Sam added them in his head. “Eight.”

“Yeah, vacation’s over. Got any idea what we’re dealing with here?”

Sam shook his head. “I was hoping you’d heard from Cas.”

“Not a peep.”

Ruthie set the last dish in the drying rack and turned to them. “I’ll go pack. If we leave soon, we’ll get there in time to crash and get a few hours of sleep before morning.” 

A frown flashed across Dean’s face. He walked over to Ruthie and put an arm around her. “Hey, why don’t you sit this one out? You can read those lore books you haven’t gotten to yet. Take a little break. Me and Sam can handle it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why don’t you want me to go?”

Sam threw Dean a searching look. Hadn’t they settled this?

“Look, this thing is most likely some sort of demon, right?” Dean began, looking to Sam for backup. 

“Yeah…” Sam hesitantly agreed.

“And you don’t have one of these.” Dean pulled his shirt aside to reveal the tattoo on his upper chest: a pentagram encircled by sunburst flames. 

She wasn’t fazed. “So I’ll wear a pendant, like you guys did before you got tattoos. I can get ink after this job.”

“Not good enough,” Dean said.

“It’ll have to be, because I’m going.” She crossed her arms and glared up at him. “I’m not staying here, Dean, worrying about you two, doing nothing. It’s not happening.”

Dean looked to Sam again, but Sam raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He’d figured out long before his brother had that you didn’t tell Ruthie what to do. 

Ruthie’s expression softened. She stepped closer to Dean and put her hands on his shoulders. “I know you want me to be safe. I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I promise.” Then she turned to Sam. “Where can I find an anti-possession pendant?”

“I think we’ve got a couple in the storage room. Second shelf. Same box as the other amulets.”

She nodded and left.

Sam and Dean stood in silence for a moment, then Sam cast him a sideways look. “So…how are things?”

Dean still watched the doorway. “Good. We’re good. Thanks, by the way.” He turned to Sam. “She loved the burger.” He glanced back at the doorway, and shook his head. “I just don’t want her to get hurt, Sam. If anything happened to her…”

“I know. Believe me, I know. But she’s smart, Dean, and she’s careful. And remember, she knows the risks. She chose this life.”

“Yeah.” Dean wiped a hand across his face. “Yeah, I know. I’m gonna go get packed.” He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder on his way out. 

Twenty minutes later, Sam sat in the passenger seat watching Dean and Ruthie approach, bags slung over their shoulders. Dean tossed them in the trunk before leaning in the driver’s side window. “I thought maybe you’d wanna drive the first leg. Me and Ruthie can take the back.” He winked.

“Uh—”

“He’s joking,” Ruthie said, climbing in the back and shutting the door. A silver chain hung around her neck, the pendant hidden beneath her scoop neck t-shirt. 

“I was?” Dean asked. 

“Come on, Winchester. Let’s go. Stop making it weird for Sam.”

Dean made a pouty face and got in. 

Later that evening, after they’d crossed the Mississippi, Sam found himself taking Dean’s side for once. “Ruthie, crushed ice fills more of the cup. More total ice surface area means more ice in contact with the liquid, which means a colder drink. It’s science.”

“Crushed ice is objectively bad, Sam. Who wants jagged little chunks of ice scraping down their throat while they’re trying to drink?”

“So use a straw, wuss,” Dean said.

“Even with a straw, any bits of ice that melt down to sub-straw diameter are going to get sucked up! Rock hard little pebbles trying to gag you. It’s unacceptable.”

Dean sucked the last of his Coke from his big styrofoam cup with a loud slurping noise, then started crunching on a chunk of ice. 

Ruthie smacked the back of his head. “There’s another reason. Nobody wants to hear you masticating.”

Dean’s eyes bugged out; he made a choking gurgle. “Hey, no need to bring my private time into this.”

Sam rolled his eyes; Ruthie buried her face in her hands and groaned.

“It means chewing,” Sam said.

Dean gave him a sideways wink before looking back at Ruthie in the rearview. “So say ‘chewing,’ then. What are you, Shakespeare?” He tipped more ice into his mouth and crunched louder.

Ruthie narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t choke.”

Sam grinned and took a drink of his own Coke. When Ruthie let out a shrill yelp, he nearly spewed it all over the dash.

Dean braked hard; his eyes shot to the rearview while Sam twisted around.

“Dammit, Crowley,” they both barked. 

The bearded demon sat in the back seat. “Lovely to see you, too, boys.” He nodded at them, then turned to look at Ruthie. “And you are?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Um, Ruthie.”

He looked her up and down. “No flannel. Not part of the Scooby Gang, then. Hitchhiker? I can see why they picked you up.”

“What do you want, Crowley?” Dean growled.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Ruthie beat him to it. “You’re the King of Hell.”

He looked back at her in surprise, then made a half-bow. “At your service. So you’re not a hitchhiker, I take it.”

She gazed at Sam, looking dumbstruck. “I’m riding down a highway in the back seat with the King of Hell.”

“Don’t make his head any bigger,” Sam said. “There won’t be room for you.”

She turned to Crowley again. “Actually, I’ve been wondering, how many other ancient, powerful beings have escaped on your watch?”

Crowley reddened. A mixture of amusement and pride flickered across Dean’s face. 

“He didn’t escape,” Crowley snapped. “He left.”

“Who is ‘he?’” Sam asked.

Crowley eyed him, then Dean in the rearview mirror. “Before I tell you anything, I need to know we’re on the same page.”

“What page is that?” Sam asked. 

“Getting him back to Hell as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“Fine,” Dean said. “Unless we get a chance to kill him, whoever or whatever he is.”

Crowley gritted his teeth. “I know killing everything first and asking questions later is your MO, but not this time. I want him alive. Besides, I don’t believe he can be killed.”

“You’re talking to the guy who killed Death.”

“What are we up against here?” Sam asked. “It must be big, or you wouldn’t be here. You need our help.”

“And you will need mine, I assure you.” They waited in silence until he continued. “His name is Azar. It’s an ancient Persian word for fire.”

“Demon?” Dean asked.

“One of the oldest. Perhaps the oldest, since Lilith died. You remember her, I believe?”

Sam remembered Lilith well. He’d killed her himself. It had backfired in spectacular fashion, releasing Lucifer and setting the stage for the Apocalypse. 

“You’ve heard the phrase ‘hellfire and brimstone?’” Crowley asked. “That’s him.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“I mean, he _is_ hellfire. It’s his essence. He is the reason Hell is hot.”

They rode in silence for several heavy moments after that. Sam glanced at Dean, who asked, “Why have we never heard of this guy before?”

Crowley shrugged. “He’s never left Hell. He’s always been there, since the beginning. Humans have no way of knowing about him. Not living ones, anyway.”

“So why leave now?” Ruthie asked.

He regarded her with mild curiosity for a moment before answering. “I have no idea. He didn’t discuss his plans with me.”

“But you’re the king,” Ruthie said. “Shouldn’t he have asked for your permission before leaving? Before coming into the world?”

Crowley lifted his chin. “Yes. Yes, he should have.”

“So you’re saying you have no control over him,” Dean said.

“Neither I nor anyone else could have predicted he’d want to leave Hell,” Crowley retorted. “It’s his natural habitat. I didn’t have him imprisoned, for the same reason Lucifer didn’t: we didn’t know it was necessary. It never has been, until now.”

“What exactly does he do in Hell?” Sam asked.

“Azar manages the Lake of Fire. It’s his own domain, if you will. Souls that aren't sent to the rack are tossed to him. He burns them.”

Sam shot a glance at Dean, whose jaw was clenched tight. Sam knew he must be remembering his own time on the rack.

“So…they die? The souls he burns?” Ruthie asked.

“Of course not. Souls can’t die.” 

“But then…they burn forever?” She looked horrified.

“That is the general idea of Hell, yes.” Crowley’s cheek gave an annoyed twitch. “Except they’re getting a little break right now. Without Azar, my Lake of Fire is more like a Puddle of Lukewarm.”

“So that’s why you’re here to get our help. He’s making you look bad,” Sam said.

Crowley scowled at him.

“Why the spontaneous combustions?” Dean asked. “He get tired of burning souls and decide to try it on live people?”

Crowley sat back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. “They’re just unfortunate meat suits. They can’t hold him. He assumed he’d be able to get around on Earth same as the rest of us, the cocky bastard. He doesn’t know how to control his own power.”

“How do you know that?” Ruthie asked.

“Despite what these two lumberjacks may have told you, I’m very clever.” He extended his hand to her. “By the way, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ruthie.”

“Don’t touch her, Crowley,” Dean snapped.

The demon’s eyebrows rose. “Touchy.”

Ruthie shook his hand anyway. “This feels like the beginning of a buddy road trip movie. _Unlikeliest Frenemies: The world’s best hunters hit the road with the King of Hell.”_

“Frenemies?” Dean sounded indignant.

“Oh, I like her,” Crowley said. He pointed at Ruthie, then Dean. “The two of you, then? Nicely done, Squirrel. I admit it: I’m impressed.”

“Shut up, Crowley.”

“But what about Moose?” Crowley asked. “Feeling like an abnormally large third wheel now?”

“Shut _up_ , Crowley,” Dean growled.

“How do we send Azar back to Hell?” Sam asked, trying to get the conversation back on track. 

The amusement fell away from Crowley’s face. “I’m working on it. I’ve got to have an enclosure made that will hold him once he’s returned to Hell. And I’ve got to develop a transport that can get him there. Unless I can find a way to send him straight back to the Lake directly.”

“You’re working on it,” Dean repeated. “How long will it take?”

“Sorry, Mother borrowed my crystal ball.”

“So what are we supposed to do until you’re ready?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were hunters. Don’t you think locating him would be a good place to start?”

Sam felt his blood pressure rising. “You know what Crowley? You might want to be a little less snarky considering it’s your fault he’s loose and you need us to bail you out.”

“No one asked you, Third Wheel.”

“He’s killed eight people, Crowley,” Dean said. “We’re not just gonna sit around waiting for you. What will work against him? Devil’s traps? Demon blade?”

“He can burn through any sort of devil’s trap. That knife might tickle, I suppose. But you’re not to kill him, or try to kill him, are we clear?”

“Yeah. Whatever. If you want him alive, you better figure out how to get him back to Hell before we figure out how to kill him.”

Crowley blew out a breath through his nose. “I’ll be in touch.” And with that, he vanished.

“Assclown,” Dean muttered.

“Sorry about that, Ruthie,” Sam said.

“No, it’s okay.” She gazed out the window at the rolling hills.

“There’s gotta be a way to kill him. Azar, or whatever his name is,” Dean said. “There’s a way to kill everything.”

“Hopefully we’ll find it,” Sam said. “But I’ll settle for getting him back to Hell if we have to.”

Dean glanced in the rearview. “Ruthie, you okay?”

“Yeah.” She gave him a little smile. “I was just thinking I ought to get myself some flannel. If that’s what it takes to be an honorary Winchester.”

Dean smiled back. But once his eyes were back on the road, Sam saw his forehead crease. Dean was turning something over in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling so far? Any major concerns? Predictions? You know I'm here for you, darlings.


	5. Chapter 5

Azar kept walking. The bright orange glow guided him. He’d had to travel more than a mile from the gas station before he’d found a vessel: a young woman walking a tiny dog. The creature had followed him down the road, barking incessantly, aware that its mistress was no longer who she appeared. Azar grew tired of the racket and flung the animal into a retention pond. 

This latest delay grated at him. He was burning through vessels—quite literally—much faster than he was collecting souls. There must be a better way. 

And yet, he was learning. He had been able to direct his fire this time. His vessel would have escaped with only singed hair and a blistered palm had it not been for the fuel. He would continue practicing.

He cut across a cornfield, ignoring the many cuts the sharp-edged, young green leaves inflicted on his borrowed legs. Red and blue lights flashed ahead, near the flames still raging at the station. He hoped he had thrown his bag far enough from the blast that its contents would still be intact. Rewriting the first batch of contracts he’d prepared would be one more delay he didn’t need.

He emerged from the field and took the long way around the back of the building— or rather, the blackened pile of rubble, avoiding the cluster of firemen facing the flames. Walking toward the patch of grass opposite the road, he quickened his pace. While the initial fireball had scorched the ground here, the main blaze had not reached so far. The bag should be where he left it. But it was not. There were no charred leather remains, no sooty metal buckles. It was gone. Someone had taken it. 

He whipped around, glaring at the gathered people in uniform. Which one of them had it? He turned his steps toward them, heat building in his core. He focused his power, ready to practice again—

“You looking for this?”

He spun toward the voice. A husky, bearded man stood in the shadows beyond the glow of the fire, alongside the quiet country highway. He held a familiar leather bag in his hands. 

Azar walked toward him, raising his hand, aiming his fire. “Give it to me.”

The man gave him a yellow-toothed smile. “No need for that. It’s all yours. I thought you might come looking for it. Been keeping it safe for you.” He held out the bag.

Azar took it. Some scorch marks marred the leather, but otherwise it appeared undamaged. He checked inside: the parchments had survived. He studied the stranger before him. “Who are you? No, I should ask _what_ are you? You do not have a human soul.”

“Werewolf,” he said. “My kind go to Purgatory when we bite it. I don’t reckon you’ve met one of us before.”

“And how it is that you came to be here, wolf, with my property?”

“I’ve been looking for you.” The hairy man still wore a calm, assured smile. 

“How do you know who I am?”

“Tracked down a demon when I heard about the weird stuff going on around here. She told me all the latest gossip from Hell. Azar the Eternal, the essence of hellfire, loose on the earth. Epic stuff.”

So, that was how they were speaking of him in his absence. Azar was pleased. “And you sought me out. Why?”

“Because I think we can help each other.”

Azar bristled. “What makes you believe I need your help?”

The creature held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t mean any offense. I recognize your power, okay? You could roast me like a hot dog. But you’ve never been in the world before, right? Well, I’ve been here a long time. I know humans. I used to be one. I can help you with your soul-gathering.”

Azar’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know I am gathering souls?”

“I’ve been watching you. I’m a fan, I guess you could say. I talked to that drunk chick you got to sign on the dotted line. Nice one, by the way. I’m surprised she could hold the pen.”

Azar’s anger receded. This werewolf seemed knowledgeable, resourceful. Admiring. Perhaps having an ally—no, a servant—would be beneficial. “How do you propose to help?”

“Again, no offense, okay? But you need a coach. The way things went down here earlier?” He glanced at the blazing wreckage where the gas station had been. “You’re never gonna get what you want unless you learn to play it cool. At least long enough to get them where you want them.” 

Azar thought of the police officers who had ignored his threats of destruction. Perhaps he did need someone who understood humans better. 

“You have tools you’re not using. When you’re wearing one of them, you can access their memories, their mannerisms, right?”

Azar’s lip curled. He didn’t want to impersonate humans; he wanted to own them. 

The werewolf seemed to read his mind, or at least his expression. “Think of yourself as a secret agent, a spy. You can use their identities to your advantage, especially in certain situations.”

Azar was not convinced. 

“Listen, if you don’t like that strategy, no problem. I got another one that’ll work just as well, maybe better: You need to apply the right motivation. For humans, the biggest motivator is fear. When they’re afraid, they’ll do anything to save themselves. You don’t even have to give them anything else. Trust me. I can help with that.”

This sounded more promising.

The werewolf took a half step closer. “And your little problem with the meat suits? I think I have a solution.”

Now he had Azar’s full attention. “What is it?”

“Remember several years back when Lucifer got out of the Cage?” 

“Of course.”

“And he wanted to bring the Apocalypse? The final fight between him and Michael?”

“Yes, yes. What has this to do with my vessels?”

“Sorry, boss. I just don’t know how much you heard in Hell. Did you know that Lucifer and Michael needed very specific vessels? Their ‘true vessels.’ Two brothers. Hunters. The people destined to contain the devil and the archangel. Who Lucifer and Michael could channel their power through.”

Here was information that had not reached Azar in the Lake of Fire. He tried to disguise his eagerness to hear more. “Continue.”

“Well, you know the Apocalypse never did happen. Michael had to settle for a blood relative of his true vessel. Angels have to get permission from their vessels, you know. Lucifer got his, but at the time, the guy was all juiced up on demon blood and was able to overpower Lucifer long enough to toss him back in the Cage.”

The promising beginning had taken a distinctly disappointing turn. Azar’s anger began to simmer.

The werewolf seemed to sense the danger. He hurried on. “But there’s lots of good news. You’re not an angel. You don’t need to ask permission. The second brother, Lucifer’s vessel? He doesn’t have that power anymore. He’d be no threat to you.” Reflected flames flickered in the wolf’s dull brown eyes. “They’re both still alive. Doesn’t it make sense that if they’re able to hold archangels, the most powerful beings in universe besides God, that they could hold you? Isn’t it worth a shot?”

For the first time since his somewhat disappointing arrival on Earth, excitement began to build inside Azar. With a sturdy vessel, he could soon learn to control his power and use it to secure his goal, his quota of souls. No more endless switching of vehicles. And with the help of this worldly-wise monster, he’d accomplish his task that much more quickly. 

Then, a sudden jolt of suspicion. “And you?” he questioned the werewolf. “What do you expect of me in return for your aid?”

The flickering eyes narrowed; the lines in the creature’s face hardened. “Once you choose the one you want, I get his brother. I get to rip out his heart and eat it while the other one watches.”

So, the werewolf had history with these “true vessels.” Very well. That was no concern of Azar’s. Though it might be prudent to keep a spare, in case anything were to happen to the first. But this creature didn’t need to know that. “And?”

“And when you’re finished with your meat suit, you leave him to me.”

“Done.” 

The wolf bared his yellowed teeth in a wide grin. 

“I wish to begin at once,” Azar told him. “How do we find these brothers?”

“We won’t have to,” the werewolf said. “They’ll come to us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling about this development? Tell me all your hopes and fears.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to each of you who read and reviewed my novel, Second Life. It already has 16 reviews and 4.9/5 stars on Amazon! The ebook release is this Monday, the 11th, and I'm sooo excited. Here is the link if you're interested:
> 
> https://smile.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=second+life+reiswig&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Asecond+life+reiswig


	6. Chapter 6

The woman in the hospital bed was wrapped up like a mummy, gauze everywhere. Ruthie had only treated two patients with such extensive burns. She’d hated those cases. The pain was almost impossible to manage unless the patient was put into a medically induced coma. Her heart ached for them.

“Annette?” she said.

The woman opened bloodshot green eyes. Wispy red hair stuck out here and there between the layers of bandages around her head. 

“I’m Agent Lanier with the FBI, and this is my colleague, Agent Bloom.” She gestured to Dean, who nodded at Annette. “We’re here to find out what happened at the EZ Mart. Do you feel able to speak with us?”

She gave a single nod, then winced.

“Thank you. What can you tell us about that day? Did anything out of the ordinary happen? Especially shortly before the explosion?”

“Yes,” she croaked, and Ruthie noticed a big gap between her front teeth. “One guy. I saw him out at Pump 3, talkin’ to another customer. Seemed like he was makin’ the guy really uncomfortable, so I was watching him.” She paused to take a wheezy breath. “Pretty soon he came in with four dollars, saying he wanted gas. Then he asked me if I wanted to do something funny.”

“Something funny?” Dean asked.

“Wanted me to sell him my soul. Said we’d laugh about it. He wanted me to sign this scroll thing.”

Ruthie exchanged a look with Dean. Ruler of the Lake of Fire, moonlighting as a crossroads demon?

“He was talkin’ creepy. Something about the devil and a cage, and trying to get me to sign that contract. I told him I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

“Smart,” Dean said.

“And then what happened?” Ruthie asked.

“Soon as he was out the door, I called the police. I don’t want any weirdos hangin’ around my store, scaring off my customers.”

“That’s understandable,” Ruthie said. “Did you see the police arrive?”

A nod. “A man and a woman.” Her mouth contracted; her chin trembled. “If I’da known what would happen, I wouldn’ta had them come.”

Ruthie started to respond, but Dean beat her to it. “This wasn’t your fault. Okay, Annette?”

She swallowed, then took another wheezy breath. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But he started lookin’ mad, the creepy guy. Then he reached in his bag and the police pulled their guns on him and started yelling. That’s when I hit the floor and crawled for the back door fast as I could. The front was all windows, you know. Bullets coulda come right through. Well, I had just got the back door pushed open, praise the Lord, when it all went up.” Her eyes filled. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Ruthie nodded, wishing she could put a comforting hand on Annette’s shoulder or hand, but they were both heavily bandaged. “They told us the explosion threw you clear of the building. Almost twenty yards.”

“That’s what they tell me, too,” Annette said in a scratchy voice. “I guess I’m in pretty bad shape, but I’m alive.”

“That’s right,” Dean said. “You’re strong. You’re gonna be okay. Thank you for your time.”

Ruthie gave her another smile before she followed Dean out of the room. 

“So,” he said, “our big bad is trying to hustle souls?”

“Looks that way.”

“Why? And why _here?_ There’s more cows than people.” 

Ruthie shrugged. “No idea.”

He pulled out his phone and checked the screen. “Hey, look, I got one bar. That’s one more than I get at the motel. Nothing from Sam, though.” Dean stuffed a hand into his pocket and peered down the hallway as they walked, clearly deep in thought. 

Ruthie sneaked peeks at him, trying not to be too obvious. He could just as easily be on a runway, she thought, or shooting a cover for GQ. She never got tired of looking at him, of admiring the determined set of his jaw, or the way he wore the hell out of that suit. Even more, though, she never tired of how he prided himself on being a tough guy, yet made sure to encourage a burn victim he’d never met before and would never meet again. How he’d wink and smile back at toddlers who waved at him.

And he was hers. This insanely attractive, monster-hunting, demon-killing, wisecracking, tender, strong man was hers. She loved him, and he loved her. She’d stay with him, saving people and hunting things, until the day she died. 

An uncomfortable twinge in her belly reminded her that the day she’d die was almost certainly going to arrive sooner because she was with him. Because this life, this job, produced precious few retirees. 

She shook off the thought. She’d faced the idea of life without him only days before, and she’d never been so miserable. No. Her choice was made. ‘Til death do us part. 

They turned the corner and passed through a set of double doors into the lobby. Sam was waiting for them by the reception desk, getting lots of curious looks from passersby. Remarkably tall men in suits must be a rare sight in Jackson, Ohio. Though, to be fair, Sam was remarkably tall just about anywhere except an NBA game. 

“You’re back fast,” Dean said. “Sheriff not have anything?”

“Not much. He gave me the names of everybody who’s been killed. They haven’t found anything connecting the victims so far.”

“So Crowley was probably right,” Ruthie said. “Azar is jumping from vessel to vessel, and they can only hold him so long.”

“It’s the best theory we’ve got,” Sam agreed. “How about you?”

“She says he tried to get her to sell him her soul,” Dean said.

Sam’s forehead creased. “Like a crossroads demon?”

“He had a contract ready and everything,” Ruthie said.

Sam paused while that sank in. “Okay,” he said, stuffing one hand in his pocket, looking just like Dean had minutes earlier. “So…why?”

“That’s the million dollar question,” Dean said.

“Pardon me.”

Ruthie, Sam, and Dean turned toward the voice. He was a priest, or at least dressed in a priest’s clothes: all black, plus the telltale black collar with a white square in the center. He looked about forty-five, average height, short dark brown hair. Nothing unusual about him, except maybe his eyes. They were a clear, sharp blue. They reminded Ruthie of Castiel. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” he said. His voice had a pleasant, musical lilt. “I’m Father Murray. I have the Jackson County parish. I’m here to visit one of my parishioners, Annette Fuller. Sheriff Watts told me the FBI were here, investigating the recent deaths and fires. The spontaneous combustions. And forgive me, but you look the part.”

Dean eyed the guy, but Sam offered a handshake. “Agent Bouchard,” he said, before gesturing to Dean and Ruthie. “Agents Bloom and Lanier. What can we do for you?”

Father Murray shook their hands, giving them each a disarming smile. “Actually, I thought I might be able to help you.”

“Yeah? How’s that?” Dean asked.

“I know this area. I know these people. They’ll talk to me. Lori Hutchinson, one of the victims? I’ve known her since she was a teenager. I’ve done a bit of my own sleuthing already. And—” he broke off, seemingly uncertain whether he should continue. “Well, I have a theory. But it isn’t the sort the FBI is likely to entertain.”

Sam and Dean both looked to Ruthie. She read the question on their faces: was this guy legit, or shady? She took a moment to study the priest, his hesitant posture, his relaxed hands, his unassuming demeanor. The laugh lines stretching to his temples. 

She gave Sam and Dean a tiny nod.

“Try us,” Dean said. 

“We try to remain very open-minded,” Ruthie added.

The priest glanced at each of their faces. “Alright then.” He opened his mouth to speak, but paused again and darted a look at a passing family. “Shall we go outside?”

Ruthie and the guys followed him through the automatic doors out into the steamy afternoon sunshine. Father Murray led them to a shady spot at the corner of the building. 

“So, you think you may know what’s happening?” Sam prompted. 

The priest hesitated. “I’m not certain I should have brought it up. You’ll most likely dismiss me as a fanatic.”

“I assure you we won’t,” Ruthie told him. “Please, we want to hear what you have to say.”

After one more glance around at their waiting faces, he spoke. “Have any of you ever witnessed a demonic possession?”

He must have meant it as a rhetorical question, because he only paused for a second and was about to continue when Dean answered, “Yeah. We have.”

Father Murray stopped, mouth open, blinking at Dean. “You have?” He looked from Ruthie to Sam as if he expected them to start laughing at him. When they didn’t, he went on, stammering. “Well. Yes. Alright, then.” He collected himself and went on. “So have I. Twice. And I’ve performed exorcisms each time.”

“Successfully?” Sam asked.

The priest stared at Sam, then nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s just that I wasn’t prepared for you all to take me seriously.”

“We believe you,” Sam said. “And you think these spontaneous combustions are demonic possessions?”

“I do. I admit, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ve never even heard of it. But I’ve retraced the steps of two of the victims, spoken with witnesses who saw them, and I believe they were possessed. Nothing else explains their behavior and subsequent deaths.”

“Tell us what you learned,” Ruthie said. 

“My parishioner, Lori Hutchinson—no. I should start at the beginning. Or at least as far back as I’ve managed to go. They’ve not yet identified the remains found in the warehouse. They only found a few bits of tooth enamel. You know about the warehouse fire, yes?”

The three of them nodded.

“Well, I spoke with a road crew that’s been working near the warehouse, repairing potholes. José Rodriguez was on that crew.”

“One of the victims,” Sam said.

“Yes. His shift supervisor told me that shortly after the fire began, José disappeared. Very unlike him. Apparently just walked away from his assignment, got into his truck and drove off. Erratically, according to his coworkers.”

“Did anyone see what happened just before he left?” Sam asked.

“Unfortunately, no. José had taken a bathroom break. He was in the portable toilet. The next sighting of him was by a waitress in a diner down the street from the warehouse. She says she saw him get out of the truck and retrieve a brown satchel from some bushes beside the diner. Then he drove away. I haven’t managed to find anyone who saw José the rest of the day. But the following night, he turned up at a bar in Jackson County. The bartender put me in touch with a young woman who spoke with him there. She told me an interesting story.”

“I bet,” Dean said.

“José offered to give her anything in exchange for her soul.”

Ruthie exchanged glances with Sam and Dean. This story fit with Annette Fuller’s.

“She said he pulled a roll of parchment from his bag and had her fill in her terms. Then she signed the contract and they…they sealed it with a kiss.”

“What did she ask for?” Dean asked in a grim voice.

“A pitcher of beer. She was inebriated at the time and thought it all hilarious. Still finds it funny, in fact.”

“How much time does she get?” Sam asked.

The priest looked at him in surprise. “Ten years.” He glanced around at them again, an expression like wonder on his face. “How is it that you are so familiar with demonic contracts?”

“Personal experience,” Dean said.

“He means we’ve worked some cases with them before,” Sam quickly added, giving Dean a frown.

“Remarkable,” Father Murray said, looking dazed.

Ruthie couldn’t move past the woman from the bar. Of course she thought the whole thing was a joke. “If she was drunk, she wasn’t able to consent to any kind of binding agreement,” she said. “The contract is invalid.”

“Well, demons don’t necessarily follow all our same rules,” Sam said. 

“So in ten years, she gets dragged to Hell over a drunken joke? It’s not right!”

“None of this is right,” Dean said. “But let’s deal with Azar first, okay?”

“Dean.” Sam darted a glance at the priest before giving his brother a disapproving look. 

“What? He wants to help. He’s knows what’s up. He’s done exorcisms. Cas and Crowley are MIA, and we can use all the help we can get.”

“I beg your pardon.” Father Murray held up one hand. “I’m afraid I’m lost. Azar? Cas? Crowley?”

Dean turned to face him. “Azar is the demon we’re hunting. He’s made of hellfire. Cas is an angel. Crowley’s the King of Hell, but he’s on our side this time. Sort of.”

A bird chirped in a nearby tree.

Father Murray stared at them. “You’re…not really FBI agents, are you?”

“Nope,” Dean said.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” Ruthie asked. 

He slowly shook his head. “No. No, I won’t tell anyone. But…who _are_ you?”

Dean extended his hand a second time. “I’m Dean. This is my brother, Sam, and this is my—” he broke off, looking flustered for a second. “This is Ruthie. We’re hunters.”

Ruthie shook the priest’s hand again, wondering what Dean had been about to say. 

“Hunters?” Father Murray asked. “You mean, demon hunters?”

“Something like that,” Sam said.

“But then, who are you with? Why have I never heard of you?”

“We’re not with anybody,” Dean said. “We work alone.” He gestured at the priest. “Well, usually.”

After another amazed pause, Father Murray seemed to gather himself, and squared his shoulders. “Well then, Dean, Sam, Ruthie.” He nodded at each of them. “I appreciate your confidence. And you should know that you’re a godsend. I thought I’d be fighting this thing, this demon, alone. To be honest with you, I feared I wouldn’t be up to the task.”

“We’re glad to have your help,” Ruthie said. “You’ve already done some great research.”

“That reminds me,” he said. “I haven’t told you the rest. After José made the deal with that young woman, he was seen driving toward Coalton. His body was found burned inside his truck on a road near the Hutchinsons’ house. Lori still lives at home with her parents. They told me she was gone when they got up at six in the morning. They also told me she’s not an early riser.”

“It all fits so far,” Ruthie said. “The warehouse victim to José to Lori.”

“I haven’t been able to account for Lori’s whereabouts for the full two days yet, but I did speak to one of her friends who saw her wandering down the street in Coalton yesterday. She said Lori seemed not to know her, and acted very strangely. And that she was carrying a bag her friend had never seen before.”

“A leather satchel,” Ruthie guessed.

Father Murray nodded. “Lori was headed west, toward Highway 40. That’s where her ashes and teeth were found, right beside the fallen tree Randy Collins was clearing off the road.”

“And Randy just blew up the gas station in Jackson,” Sam said.

“Any idea where our pyromaniac is now?” Dean asked.

“It’s possible the demon—Azar?—possessed a driver passing on the highway, but it’s not a busy road. My plan was to look for the nearest houses to the EZ Mart and find out if anyone has gone missing.”

“Sounds good,” Dean said. “Let’s check with the sheriff and then knock on some doors.”

“We should exchange numbers,” Ruthie said. 

“Yes, let’s,” Father Murray agreed, producing a card and handing it to her. “Although I’m sure you’ve noticed the service is dreadful. Here in Jackson is as good as it gets, I’m afraid. The rest of the county is a signal desert.”

“That must be why I saw the sheriff’s deputies using radios,” Sam said.

“Ah, yes. Two-way radios are much more reliable.”

Dean’s face brightened for a moment, then he switched to a forced casual look. “What a pain. So…do you think we should get some?”

“It’s up to you.” Father Murray gestured down the road. “They do sell them down at the Army surplus store on Main Street. Fifty-mile radius.”

“Thank you,” Ruthie said. “Do you have one?”

“I do have one at home. I keep it for emergencies. Let’s use channel six. Shouldn’t be too many prying ears there. Although it would probably be best if we don’t use our real names. Too many people know me around here, and, well, you seem to have your own reasons for staying undercover.”

“Code names?” Dean’s eyes sparkled with an eager light. Then he glanced around and arranged his face into a scowl. “Lame.”

Ruthie pursed her lips to keep from grinning.

“For now we’ll make do with phones. I need to go and see Annette now, but can I expect to hear from you soon?”

“Yes,” Ruthie told him. “Thank you for finding us.”

He gave her a polite bow of his head. “I look forward to hearing from you.” One more blue-eyed smile, and he walked back to the hospital. 

“Well,” Ruthie said, “that was unexpected.”

“You still think we can trust him?” Sam asked her.

She watched as he disappeared into the hospital entrance, carefully considering her answer. Then she nodded. “I do.”

“Alright then,” said Dean, who clapped once and headed toward the Impala. “Let’s go get us some walkie-talkies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this breather of a chapter; things will get rougher next week when we check in with Azar and the werewolf. Anything stand out to you from this chapter? Any favorite parts? Always lovely to hear from you!


	7. Chapter 7

Azar watched from the shadows as a windowless white van rumbled along the dirt path through the soybeans. A long cloud of dust rose in its wake, like smoke from a fast-moving fire. The van pulled around to the back of the building—a small, decrepit barn. Several shafts of sunlight shone through holes in the roof, piercing the gloom here and there, but not banishing it. Broken and warped boards littered the dirt floor; broken bottles and empty beer cans languished in the corners.

A car door opened. Dull footsteps thudded several feet, then two more vehicle doors creaked open. Sounds of shallow breathing traveled through the holes in the barn wall. Then pleading, and a woman’s weeping. Azar smiled.

A gruff voice barked commands; shuffling noises followed. More pairs of feet milled about on the ground. Another command, then the back door of the barn slid open with a shrill grating noise. His husky, bearded associate entered, holding a rope in his hand. Behind him came a chain of ten humans, hands bound in front of them, all connected by the same rope. Their wide eyes shone white in the dim space.

“That was prompt,” Azar said, pleased with the werewolf’s quick work. The monster had asked for one day to make arrangements, and Azar had allowed it, lying low throughout yesterday. The wolf had turned up this morning at their agreed meeting point with the van and a smile. After a brief coaching session, which Azar managed to endure with patience, the werewolf promised to deliver the first group of potential contract signers by noon. He’d been true to his word. 

“Found ‘em working in a field down the road. Loaded ‘em up.” He pulled a gun from his pocket. “Easy. They didn’t scatter and run like they would’ve if I’d turned.” He grinned. “It’s a toy, but they didn’t know that.”

The first person in the line, a short, solid man with graying hair, looked back and forth between Azar and the werewolf. “¿Quién eres?” he demanded.

The werewolf scowled. “No English, though. Sorry. But I figure we can get them to understand they need to sign the contract. Even if it takes a little…persuasion.”

Azar turned to the frowning captive. “Soy Azar. Yo soy fuego. Soy eterno.” _“I am Azar. I am fire. I am eternal.”_

The man’s eyes widened. Azar wished he were in a more imposing vessel, rather than this slender young woman.

The werewolf’s thick eyebrows were raised in surprise. “Wow. Didn’t know you were bilingual.”

These dull, pitiful creatures were so easily impressed. Every language was represented in the Lake, and he’d had millennia to learn them all. “I am pan-lingual. Shall we begin?”

The wolf jerked on the rope, and pointed the captives to the north corner of the barn. They obeyed, trudging through the dirt, and had to duck their heads one after the other to enter the silo he’d directed them to. They huddled together inside it, peering out and whispering to each other. The silo magnified the sounds, sending hisses echoing off the curved cinder block walls.

“Why don’t you tell ‘em why they’re here, boss,” the werewolf suggested.

Azar stepped forward and addressed the cowering group in Spanish. “You each have a simple choice. Sell your soul to me and walk away unhurt, or refuse, and die here today.” He held up a contract for them to see, and pointed at the bottom line. “Sign your name here, or you are signing your death warrant.”

The prisoners stared at him, stealing little glances at one another. 

“But I am not a thief,” he went on. “I will pay a fair price for your souls. Anything you wish: it is yours. And you will have ten years to enjoy it.”

The werewolf shot him a questioning look. Azar knew the werewolf believed they needed only use fear, but this was how things were done. No one could accuse Azar of being unprofessional. Besides, their wishes would reveal much about the souls he obtained. Flavors for his feast.

“Let us begin,” Azar commanded.

The werewolf stepped to the silo entrance, pulled out a small switchblade, and flicked it open. An amplified gasp sounded in the silo; the prisoners shrank back. He beckoned to the last one in the chain, and the young man hesitantly came forward. He flinched when the monster raised his knife, and exhaled when it cut through the rope connecting him to the next captive. The werewolf motioned for him to come into the barn and stand before Azar.

The young man waited, looking uncertainly from the werewolf to the demon. Azar gestured at the prisoner’s hands. “His bonds are no longer necessary.” 

The werewolf obediently cut through the knots, letting the rope drop to the ground. The young man rubbed his wrists.

“What is your name?” Azar asked in Spanish.

He swallowed. “Felipe.”

“Tell me about yourself, Felipe.”

The werewolf flipped the blade of his weapon closed, then open again. 

Felipe glanced at the knife, then back to Azar. He licked his lips, eyes darting around. “I’m nineteen. I finished school last year.”

“Good, good. And who do you live with?”

“With my grandparents.”

“And do you love your grandparents?”

The werewolf made a huffing sound and started tapping his foot on the dirty floor.

“Sí,” Felipe said, glancing toward the silo.

Azar followed his eyes. _“_ They are here?”

Felipe turned back toward Azar, but did not answer. 

Azar smiled.“What do you want most in the world?”

Felipe stared at him for a few seconds, then shifted his feet and rubbed his arm. “I want to own my own company. A computer company.”

“Easy!” Azar said, and held out the contract and quill. “Sign here, and it is done.”

Felipe looked at the parchment, hesitating.

Azar used the young woman to smile at him. “Well, it will be done after we seal it with a kiss.” 

Felipe’s brown cheeks flushed. He turned to look back into the silo. The first man in the chain, the one who’d demanded to know who Azar was, shook his head at Felipe.

The young man turned back to Azar, a solemn expression on his face now. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t want to sell my soul.”

Azar frowned. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to make an example of any of his captives. He wanted all of them, wanted to make up for all the time he’d lost jumping from one vessel to the next. “But Felipe, with a successful business, you could take care of your grandparents. You could all stop working in the fields.”

Felipe stood up straighter. He didn’t look to his grandfather for direction this time. “I will have my company. I will build it myself. I will not sell my soul to you.”

Azar watched him for a moment, this little human with no idea whom he was defying. He would know soon enough. He lowered his voice, careful not to become angry, lest he lose this vessel as well. “You will never build anything if you refuse me. You will keep your soul but lose your life.” He paused, giving the boy a chance to change his mind, but Felipe only waited, watching. Azar stepped back from him. No need to soil these clothes, in case he chose to venture out tonight. He found an overturned bucket and took a seat on it, then gestured to the werewolf. “Show him what happens to those who refuse me.” He said it loudly enough for the occupants of the silo to hear.

“Sure thing, boss.” The stocky man advanced toward Felipe, who raised his chin although it shook. He pulled the phony gun from his pocket, and another chorus of gasps rose from the silo. The werewolf paused for a moment, then grinned and tossed it aside. Felipe’s forehead creased, then his face hardened. He dropped his right foot back a half step and raised his fists: a fighting stance. 

Ah, humans. Oblivious in the face of their destruction. Pathetic in their courage. Deluded in their hope. This would have been a good soul, a meaty one. One filled with filial love and loyalty, and youthful dreams. Azar regretted losing it. But he’d known he might have to sacrifice one to gain the other nine.

The werewolf pointed at Felipe, chuckling. “Look at him.” 

“Get on with it.”

The wolf nodded and turned back to Felipe. One final, charged moment of quiet suspense. Then a savage snarl erupted through the silence. The werewolf’s canine teeth stretched into sharp fangs; hard, pointed claws sprouted from his fingertips. His eyes glowed yellow and feral in the dim barn. Felipe jolted, stumbling backward; a shriek echoed from the silo. 

Felipe’s foot caught on a board. He fell back, but before he hit the ground, the wolf caught the front of his shirt. Felipe hung there, suspended, staring open-mouthed at the inhuman face above him. He tried to speak, but only a gurgling noise came out.

Then Azar saw that the wolf hadn’t caught him by the shirt at all. His clawed hand had impaled the boy’s chest. The werewolf had caught him by the heart.

The wolf held him there a moment longer, grinning down at him, before yanking his arm back. Felipe fell to the ground, eyes wide and lifeless, a giant crater blasted out of his chest. His heart gave a final, futile beat in the werewolf’s blood-covered hand.

Terrified cries rang out, along with retching noises, and the wet splash of vomit. A single dull thud drummed from the silo. The sole woman in the group lay in a heap on the ground, senseless. 

Felipe’s grandfather stared at the corpse, which only moments before had been his living grandson. His eyes glistened in the shadowy silo. His lower lip gave one slight tremble, then his face tightened and turned toward the demon. Azar looked at him with curiosity, searching the defiant eyes. The man glared back, unflinching.

Interesting. 

“Next.”

The werewolf shoved the last bite of heart into its mouth and gave Azar a thumbs up. It went to the silo entrance, blood dripping from its beard. The prisoners shrank back—all except Felipe’s grandfather—and Azar heard moans of fear. 

The werewolf returned, half-dragging the next prisoner behind him. The man’s legs seemed to be on the verge of giving out. He was a paunchy forty-something with thinning hair and several missing teeth. When the werewolf let him go, he dropped to his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

“Please, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please. I’ll do whatever you want!”

A noise of disgust came from the silo. Felipe’s grandfather, his tied hands clenched into fists, glared at the kneeling man.

Azar addressed his terrified prisoner. “You are more wise than your young friend was. Tell me your name.”

“Manuel. Please don’t kill me!”

“Calm yourself, Manuel. I only want to talk to you. Tell me, what do you dream of? What do you want most?”

“Me? I…nothing. I don’t want anything. I just want to stay alive, please.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. You will. But I want to know about you. Whom do you love most in the world?”

The werewolf blew out an impatient breath.

Manuel’s bloodshot eyes darted from Azar to the werewolf and back. He wrung his hands together. “Please. I don’t… I’ll sign whatever you want.”

Azar drummed his borrowed fingers on his knees. He decided to try a different approach. “Manuel. Why are you so afraid to die? Whom do you not wish to leave? What do you wish to accomplish?”

The man’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes bulging like a fish on a riverbank.

“Nothing!” barked Felipe’s grandfather from the silo. “He does nothing. He cares for no one but himself. He wants only liquor, and more liquor.” The old man’s eyes smoldered in the shadows. 

Azar surveyed the cowering man once more, and knew the accusation was true. This soul had no strength, no depth, no flavor. No meat.

Azar sighed and retrieved the contract he’d shown them. He pulled the quill from his leather bag. “Manuel, I will give you all the alcohol you could want, and spare your life for ten years, in exchange for your soul. Do you agree?”

Manuel shot a guilty look at the silo. “I’m sorry, Uncle.” Then he addressed Azar. “Yes. Thank you.”

Azar wrote the terms in the blanks, then signed his name at the bottom. He handed the parchment and quill over to Manuel, who quickly scratched his signature beside the demon’s.

Azar rolled up the scroll and slid it into the bag. Manuel waited, eyes wide, breathing shallow. “We must seal our contract with a kiss. It is required,” Azar told him. The man stared, blinking, knees apparently frozen to the floor. Azar sighed again, stood, and walked to him. He grasped a handful of Manuel’s shirt with his vessel’s small hand and hoisted him to his feet. Pulled him close, kissed him on the lips. Pushed him away again. Azar gestured at the door. “You may go.”

The man looked apprehensively at the werewolf, shaky fingers on his just-kissed lips. He took one step toward the door, then another, looking as though he expected to be torn apart any second. 

“Oh, Manuel?”

He jolted, and a high-pitched whimper squeaked out of him.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone.”

He shook his head and rushed out the door. Azar drew another contract from his bag. From the corner of his eye, he saw the werewolf studying him while licking his bloody fingers.

“Hey, boss, mind if I ask you something?”

“Why am I interested in the humans?”

The creature’s brows rose in surprise. He nodded.

“I will ask you a question first. Are you able to eat animal hearts?”

The wolf wrinkled his nose. “It’s better than starving to death. But only a little.”

“So, you would say human hearts are incomparably more satisfying.”

“Night and day.”

“And would you prefer a heart someone else hunted and delivered to you? Or one you collected yourself?”

He raised his hairy chin. “Myself, every time. Nothing like it.”

“Then you have your answer.”

The bearded man’s forehead wrinkled; he looked as though he wanted to ask more, but Azar said, “Next.” 

The next man came forward with a color-drained face, but did not kneel. He bowed his head, crossed himself, and began murmuring prayers under his breath. 

“What is your name?” Azar asked.

There was no response but the whispered supplications. 

“Tell me your name,” Azar said more loudly.

The man crossed himself again.

Azar’s inner furnace rumbled, the fire eager for a way out. Here was an opportunity for practice, if he was careful. He stood and walked to the man. He raised his vessel’s hand and watched it, concentrating. Heat flowed from his core through the arm, into the palm and fingers. They reddened, but he controlled his power, reined it in. He reached out and touched the man’s cheek. 

A shrill cry; the prisoner jerked backward, clutching at his face. The werewolf grabbed him by the arms and held him in place. 

Azar stepped forward. “Let me see.”

The wolf yanked the man’s arms down, exposing his face. Where Azar had touched his right cheek, three red welts in the shape of fingers swelled, already blistering. The devout captive groaned and tried to grab at his face again.

Azar smiled. “Would you like to tell me your name now?”

The man gritted his teeth. “Tomás.”

Azar stepped closer, leaning in close, making certain the man felt the heat radiating from his vessel. “Tomás, you’re wearing a wedding ring. Tell me, do you love your wife?”

He flinched; fear flashed across his face. “She’s dead.”

Azar’s hand shot out, striking the burned cheek. Tomás yelped in surprise and pain. The werewolf tightened his grip. “That’s for lying to me,” Azar said. “How many children do you have?”

Another flinch.

Azar smiled again. “Tomás, what would you do to protect your family?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Would you sell your soul?”

The man trembled; a tear trickled down his scorched cheek. “Please.”

Azar closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Simple fare, but hearty. Yes, he wanted this one. “It is an easy choice. Sell your soul to me. Enjoy ten more years with your family.” He indicated the werewolf with a lift of his chin. “Or, if you say no, this creature will do to them what he did to Felipe.”

The prisoner’s knees gave out; the werewolf grunted and hoisted him up again. 

“You devil!” Felipe’s grandfather had forced his way to the silo entrance, dragging the chain of terrified people behind him. “Go back to Hell, where you came from!”

“In due time,” Azar replied. “Once I have what I came for.” He returned his attention to Tomás. “What is your decision?”

The man wept openly now. “I will do it. But you must swear my wife and daughters will be safe.” 

Azar filled in the terms and watched with satisfaction as Tomás signed away his soul. Souls like this one were a rarity in the Lake. Azar looked forward to savoring it. 

The others were persuaded more easily after that. Some begged for their loved ones’ lives immediately. Azar relished their desperation. Two were clever, asking up front for riches, hoping to avoid more uncomfortable questions. But with a little patience and several second-degree burns, their deeper motivations were revealed. One man had a younger sister he’d raised from infancy after their parents died. The other, a pretty little thing he wanted to marry. 

The woman who’d fainted, he learned, was Felipe’s grandmother. She started wailing when she laid eyes on his body again. Her husband tried to calm her, speaking to her from the silo, but she was inconsolable. The werewolf gave up trying to cut her bonds; she wouldn’t hold still long enough. She wouldn’t stop squalling long enough for Azar to speak either, and when he burned her cheek, she spat at him between screams. Annoyed, he finally ordered the werewolf to back away from her. She threw herself across her grandson’s body, sobbing and calling down curses on the werewolf and the demon. Azar raised his hand and shot a measured jet of flame at her crouching form. It immediately consumed both her and the corpse. He watched them burn for a few moments, then closed the fist of his outstretched hand. The blaze died out, leaving two smoking, blackened shapes melted together on the dirt floor. 

The werewolf peered out from behind his arms, thrown protectively over his face. He slowly lowered them. “You could’ve torched the whole place,” he growled. 

“But I did not. I am learning.” Azar examined the borrowed hand. It was still red, practically glowing. Wisps of smoke drifted from the fingertips, and a large white blister swelled from the palm. Heat roiled inside him like a living thing probing for weaknesses in its cage. He knew intuitively that he’d severely shortened the functional lifespan of this vehicle. He had another hour or two, at best. He lowered the hand, clenched it into a fist. His permanent vessel couldn’t arrive soon enough. But until then…

He studied Felipe’s grandfather, alone in the silo. True, he was not physically imposing, but his weather-beaten face exuded wisdom and determination. His gray hairs enhanced the commanding air about him. Even in his grief, he radiated defiance. Azar would have gladly traded the other nine souls for this one, but he knew it was a lost cause. This man was unbreakable. 

But not unusable. 

The demon opened his borrowed mouth and rushed out of the damaged vessel, into his new one. The werewolf could do as he liked with the discarded woman. 

He would leave the charred bodies on the floor, another bread crumb in the trail leading the hunters into his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling about the threat from Azar now? Regardless, please have a wonderful Christmas, my friends!


	8. Chapter 8

Dean made Sam and Ruthie put batteries in their radios on their way out of the store. He caught them smirking at each other behind his back, but he didn’t care. “I got our call signs,” he told Sam, grinning. “We can be the Dukes of Hazzard, like when we were kids. I call Bo.”

Sam shook his head, chuckling. “Remind me, why did you always want to be Bo?” 

“Because he always drives,” Dean said, climbing into the driver’s seat. 

“Right.” Sam examined his radio. “But the Dukes used CB radios, not handheld two-ways.”

Dammit. Sam was right. “Shut up, Luke, nobody asked you.”

Behind him, Ruthie giggled.

“What’s so funny, Daisy?”

A static _pop_ sounded from Dean’s walkie. A southern drawl version of Ruthie’s voice came through it. “Watch out boys, Rosco’s headed your way.”

Dean gave her a proud smile. “Daisy Duke.” He eyed her linen, FBI-suitable pantsuit in the rear view. “Let’s go find you some short shorts.”

Sam groaned. 

“Ooh, are we all getting into character?” Ruthie asked. “I guess we’ll be keeping things platonic, Cuz.”

Now Sam snorted.

Dean scowled at them. “You both suck.” He pulled onto Main Street and headed for the police station. “So, the plan is, we check with Watts to see if anybody has gone missing since the gas station blew up, then go knock on doors around the EZ Mart, right?”

“Makes sense,” Ruthie said. “I don’t have any better ideas.”

“Wish we could just call Sheriff Watts,” Sam said, frowning at his phone. 

Dean held up his radio. “Maybe we should tell him we got these now. Find out what channel the cops use.”

“I know you’re excited about your new toy, Dean, but—”

“It’s Cas!” Ruthie squealed from the back seat. 

Sure enough, Dean spotted the familiar dark head and trench coat emerging from a rusty old green station wagon. Dean turned into the parking lot, pulling up beside Cas. “Nice ride.”

Cas spun around. “Dean! I’ve been looking for you. I keep trying to call, but the signal—”

“Sucks.” Dean waved his radio at Cas and grinned. “We gotta get you one of these. Hey, you can be Cooter!”

Cas looked puzzled. “I don’t understand that reference.”

“So you’ve just been driving around Jackson looking for us?” Sam asked. “How long?”

“A few hours. I knew I’d find you sooner or later. I found the most questionable-looking motel in town first, but you weren’t there.” 

That was their motel alright. They’d just been at the hospital at the time. 

“So I came here to the police station to ask if anyone has seen a tall man, a really tall man, and a beautiful woman around town.”

“Aw, thank you, Cas,” Ruthie said.

He grinned and bent over to see into the back seat. “Hello, Ruthie.” He straightened up again. “I’ve learned a lot since we last spoke. I have some important information about what’s happening.”

“Great,” Dean said. “So are you just gonna stand here in the parking lot all day, or are you gonna get in?” Dean asked.

“What about my car?”

“Is that what you call that thing?”

“Be nice,” Ruthie scolded. “And aren’t we going talk to Sheriff Watts while we’re here?”

“Oh, right.” Dean pulled the Impala into the parking space beside Cas’s station wagon, and the three of them piled out. 

Ruthie went straight to Cas and gave him a big hug. “You disappeared! We’ve missed you. Why’d you run off so soon, without saying goodbye?”

Cas straightened his tie, looking puzzled again. “I just wanted to start following leads, learning what we were up against.” He darted a glance at Sam and Dean. “And Winchesters aren’t usually big on goodbyes.”

“Well, I am,” Ruthie said. “You never know when you might be seeing someone for the last time.” She poked him in the chest. “So no more leaving without saying goodbye, okay?”

Cas, who wasn’t accustomed to humans poking him or giving him orders, glanced over at Dean, eyebrows raised. Dean put up his hands and made a “don’t look at _me_ ” face. 

Cas looked back at Ruthie, apparently deciding he’d better just agree. “Okay. I won’t leave anymore without saying goodbye to you.”

“Good. So, what did you come to tell us?”

Cas glanced around the little parking lot and lowered his voice. “It wasn’t easy to get information. I captured several demons and interrogated them. They didn’t want to talk. They’re afraid. It took some…persuasion.”

“You went all Jack Bauer on their ass,” Dean said, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Atta boy.”

Cas grimaced. “It was unpleasant, and it took days. But I did eventually get answers.” He took a step closer to them, lowering his voice even further. “I know what escaped from Hell.”

In the pause that followed, Ruthie and Sam both gave Dean _“be nice”_ looks, but he ignored them. “Let me guess: a hellfire demon named Azar?”

Cas’s mouth opened, then his face fell. He looked around at all three of them, taking in Sam’s and Ruthie’s sympathetic expressions, and his shoulders slumped. “How did you find out?”

“Crowley told us,” Sam answered. “Did you get anything else?”

Cas shook his head, looking like a kid whose balloon had just floated away. “No. They don’t know what he’s after, or how to kill him.”

Ruthie put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. You did great. And we’re glad you’re here now.” Then she turned to Dean and gestured toward the little brick building. “Are you going to talk to the sheriff?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

“You and Sam go ahead. I want to talk to Cas.”

Since when did Ruthie not want to be in on every part of an investigation? And why did she want to talk to Cas alone?

Ruthie seemed to read his mind—surprise, surprise. “I just want to catch up with him. You two can handle asking about any new missing persons, can’t you?”

Dean shrugged. “Sure. C’mon, Sam. Let’s let the ladies talk.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry you went to so much trouble for nothing,” Ruthie still felt sorry for Cas; he’d been so eager to tell them his hard-earned intel. “We should have thought to call you after Crowley showed up and told us everything.”

He waved away her apology. “It’s alright. Did he tell you how to kill Azar?”

Ruthie shook her head. “He said he doesn’t believe he can be killed. But that might be because he wants him alive and back in Hell. He said he was going to work on a way to transport him back there.”

Cas looked skeptical. “I suppose that would be acceptable. But I’d rather find out how to kill him.”

Ruthie grinned at him. “You sound like Dean.” She glanced over her shoulder and watched the brothers disappear into the police station. “Speaking of Dean.” She turned back to Cas. “There’s something I need to ask you. Something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Worrying about, actually.”

Cas’s forehead filled with creases, as if he were adopting her worry as his own. “What’s wrong?”

She paused for a moment before answering. “Do you remember Lisa Braeden?”

His dark brows rose; his eyes flickered. “How do you know about her?”

“It doesn’t matter. So, you do remember her. You remember what happened to her. What you did to her.”

Cas gave the slightest flinch. “I did it to protect her. I did it because Dean asked me to. He insisted.”

Ruthie nodded. “I know. I believe you.” She threw another glance at the police station. “That’s how he is.” She took a step closer to the angel and looked up at him, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Cas?” 

“Of course.”

“Good. I need to ask you something. As my friend.”

Cas’s head pulled back and turned slightly, as though he knew exactly what she was going to say, and wished she wouldn’t. 

She said it anyway. “Don’t ever do that to me.” She leaned closer, to make up for him leaning away. “Never. Not for any reason. I don’t care if I’m hurt or possessed or dying, or any other terrible scenario you can imagine. I don’t care if Dean tells you to. I don’t care if Sam tells you to, or if they both tell you to. I don’t care if they beg. You have to promise you will _never_ do that to me.”

“Ruthie…” He stopped trying to pull away. He looked back at her, his expression a conflicted mixture of compassion and reluctance. His blue eyes bounced between her and the door the boys had walked through. “I understand why you’re asking this of me. I do. But Sam and Dean and I, we’ve been through so much together. You are my friend too, but my loyalty is with the Winchesters. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But you have my word: that would be a last resort. And I certainly hope it never becomes necessary. I don’t want Dean to lose anyone like that again.” His gaze dropped to the ground. “ _I_ don’t want to lose you like that.”

Ruthie waited, let him him finish. Then she sharpened her words into blades. “That’s reassuring. It’s a comfort to know that someday if you take away everything in my life that matters, you’ll feel sad about it.”

He winced, and couldn’t hold her gaze. “Ruthie, you know I’d only do it to—”

“What if it was you, Cas? What if, God forbid, something awful happened to you, or your life was in danger, and Dean believed that erasing all your memories of them would save you? If another angel would wipe away everything, from the minute you pulled Dean out of Hell, you’d be saved. Nothing would ever hurt you again. Would you want him to?”

Cas stood very still. He peered up at her from his still lowered face. 

She softened her voice and her grip on his arm. “If you had the choice, would you ever allow someone to take away your memories of Sam and Dean? Even if it would save your life? Even if Dean begged them to?”

He didn’t flinch or look away. He held her gaze. “No. I wouldn’t.”

A warm breeze rustled the hem of his trench coat, and made Ruthie’s ponytail sway. “So, you know how I feel.” She blew out a long breath. “Cas, I know I don’t have any leverage. I can’t threaten you. You’re an _angel_. If you ever decide to wipe my memory, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. Except this.” She slid her hand down his arm and took his hand. “I want you to remember this conversation, here in this parking lot. I want you to remember that I begged you. That I looked you in the eye and told you I’d rather die than forget them.” Her throat tightened; her eyes stung. She needed to wrap this up with some dignity. “I just want you to remember—”

“I promise,” Cas said. 

She stared at him, trying to read those blue eyes. “You promise…you’ll remember what I said?”

“I will never take away your memories of Sam and Dean. You have my word.”

Her tight throat and stinging eyes both went hot. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, shutting her eyes to keep from getting his collar wet. Cas held her until she let go. 

“Thank you,” she said.

“You were wise to put me in your shoes.” He gave her a little smile. “You’re a wise woman. I’m glad they have you. And I’m proud to be your friend.”

She returned his smile. “Should we go join them?”

He fell into step beside her as they walked toward the entrance. “So, what have you three been doing since that night I came to the bunker? Have I missed anything?”

Ruthie fought to keep her expression passive. “Oh, not much. You should probably ask Dean.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean walked behind his brother to the sheriff’s tiny corner office. Sam knocked, and there was a gruff, “It’s open.”

Dean followed Sam inside and stood beside him in front of a cluttered desk, which took up half the room. A short, stocky man with salt and pepper hair sat behind it. He glanced up from a file. “Agent Bouchard. What can I do for you?”

“Hello again, Sheriff,” Sam said. “This is my partner, Agent Bloom. We need to know if there have been any disappearances or reports of missing persons since the gas station explosion, especially near the EZ Mart. Have you heard anything?”

Watts nodded before swiveling in his office chair, and adding his folder to a stack of files on the cabinet behind him. “Matter of fact, I just had Millie Jessup in here an hour ago, telling me she found her neighbor’s Yorkie last night, soaking wet, out by the retention pond at the edge of their neighborhood. Leash still attached. Tried to return him, but Miss—” he checked inside the file he’d just stacked—“Schultz wasn’t home. Rachel Schultz. Still not back today, and she didn’t turn up for work.”

“And where’s their neighborhood?” Dean asked.

“‘Bout a mile west of the EZ Mart.”

“Do you have a photo of her?” Sam asked. 

Watts pulled a glossy photo from the file and slid it across the desk. “That’s her and Millie. Rachel’s the younger one.” 

Rachel looked to be in her mid- to late- twenties. She sported a nose ring and short cropped hair dyed so blonde it looked white. A standout in a town like this. She’d be easy to spot. A lucky break for them, if Azar was possessing her. Now, if they could just figure out how to kill him or ship his ass back to Hell once they found him.

“May I?” Sam asked, his phone out, ready to take a picture. The sheriff nodded, and Sam snapped a photo of Rachel’s image. “Thank you,” Sam said. “Will you let us know if you hear anything else?”

“Already have,” Watts said. “Right after Millie left, I got a call from Jim Brothers over in Coalton. Said his whole team of field workers disappeared. Ten people.”

“Field workers?” Sam asked. 

The sheriff nodded. “From Mexico. Undocumented, but I leave Immigration out of it. Jim treats ‘em fair and pays ‘em well. He raves about Enrique, his foreman. Sort of the godfather of the group, I guess. Jim said he’d never skip out on work. Seemed really worried about all of ‘em.”

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. This didn’t sound good. “Where were they working?” Dean asked. 

Watts rolled his chair to the wall on his right, where a big map of the county hung. He traced a stubby finger along a straight road between Jackson and Coalton. “Right around here,” he said. “County Road 6 and 240 East. The onion field.” He turned toward them. “I’ll send a deputy ASAP, but we’re a small outfit. I’m still up to my neck in paperwork from the explosion, and I gotta get somebody on this Rachel Schultz case, too.”

“We’ll go out there and see what we can find,” Sam said. “We’ll be in touch.”

The sheriff nodded. “‘Preciate it, Agents.”

Watts got up from his desk and followed Dean and Sam into the little lobby just as Cas and Ruthie came in the door. “Sheriff, these are our colleagues, Agents Roeser and Lanier,” Dean told him. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Watts,” Ruthie said, holding out her hand.

Watts took it, but didn’t look at her. He was staring at Dean with one eyebrow raised. “Hang on. Bouchard, Bloom, Roeser, and Lanier? You realize that’s the names of the original members of the Blue Oyster Cult?” 

Dean missed a beat. Nobody had ever made the connection with their aliases before. 

“The what?” Cas said, looking confused. 

“Wild coincidence, isn’t it?” Sam said with a laugh. “We couldn’t believe it when we figured it out.” 

“Yeah, what’re the chances?” Dean said, giving the sheriff his best disarming grin. He couldn’t tell if the guy was buying it. 

After an uncomfortable silence, Watts’s mustache twitched. “So, do y’all sing? Play guitar? ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ or ‘Burnin’ for You?’ You could be a G-Man cover band. Ha!”

Loud voices just outside saved Dean from having to respond. The door banged open and a wiry deputy came in, hauling a struggling, handcuffed man much larger than himself. The big guy was ranting in Spanish and sounded drunk as a skunk. Dean glanced at his watch. Not five o’clock yet. 

“Whaddya got, Chavez?” Watts asked.

The deputy had to raise his voice to be heard over his prisoner. “Picked him up at Donny’s bar. Manuel here didn’t like it when Donny cut him off.”

The guy in handcuffs rattled off something in slurred Spanish. Dean caught the word “alcol” a few times.

Chavez made a face. “Keeps saying he’s supposed to get all the booze he wants. Says ‘the devil promised.’ Something about a magic pocket that always has enough money in it for his next drink. He’s talking loco, Chief.”

Dean stepped toward the deputy and gestured at the prisoner. “Who is this guy? You know him?”

Chavez shook his head. “I don’t know him. Donny said he’s in the bar a lot, though.”

“Ask him if he works in the fields,” Dean said. “Ask him if he knows Enrique.”

Chavez looked to Sheriff Watts, who nodded. The deputy spoke to the drunk man in Spanish. 

Manuel stopped yelling. He seemed to shrink; his lips went pale, and he began muttering under his breath. 

“He says he can’t talk about it,” Chavez said. 

Dean turned to the sheriff. “We need to interview your prisoner.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Fine with me, but I need Chavez. You speak Spanish?”

“I do,” Cas said.

“He’s all yours, then. I’m heading out to Rachel Schultz’s place, then to the gas station. Put him in lockup when you're done.” He handed Dean a key ring.

Chavez passed Manuel over to Dean, and the two officers left. As soon as they were out the door, Sam spoke up. “I get wanting to interview this guy, but shouldn’t we be checking out the missing field crew right away?”

“Didn’t you see his reaction when he heard the name ‘Enrique?’” Dean said, and Manuel flinched. “He knows what happened to them.” 

“Okay, but what if you can’t get him to talk?”

Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother.

“Come on, Dean. You’re not gonna torture him; he’s not a demon.”

“I’m persuasive. We can do both, okay? Divide and conquer. You go check out the field; we’ll find out what he knows.”

“Fine.” Sam held out his hand. Dean passed Manuel over to Cas, then tossed Sam the car keys.

“I’ll go with Sam,” Ruthie said. 

Dean stiffened. He’d meant for her to stay here, with him. Away from anywhere a pyromaniac demon had recently been—could still be. He gritted his teeth at the thought. But they’d been through this. He couldn’t keep her locked up. He checked for her pendant—yes, he could just see the chain peeking from the inside corners of her open collar before it disappeared into her white button-down shirt. It was better than nothing, but it wasn’t a tattoo. 

He didn’t like it. He wished he’d found a way to make her stay behind, safe in the bunker.

She was watching him, waiting for a response.

He forced his jaw to relax. “Sounds good.”

A bright smile spread over her face. She came forward and gave him a big hug. “You kept it inside!” She released him but stayed close, looking up at him. “I know that wasn’t easy for you, and I want you to know I appreciate it.” She took hold of his lapels, stretched up on tiptoe, and kissed him on the lips. Not a friendly peck. The kind of deep, long kiss that hinted at bigger and better things coming soon. 

When she dropped back down to her regular height, Sam was looking away, grinning like an idiot. Cas was staring like he’d never seen two people kiss before. Dean cleared his throat.

“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” Sam said. “Got your radio?”

Dean reached back and patted his radio, clipped to his back pants pocket. “Ten-four.”

Sam turned to follow Ruthie outside.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean said. 

Sam turned around, but Dean couldn’t come up with any words. He kept his eyes on Ruthie until the door closed behind her. 

“I’ll watch out for her,” Sam said. “You know I will.”

Of course he would. Dean blew out a breath. “We still got nothing on how to kill that thing. If you run into it, just get the hell out of there.”

Sam nodded and left. 

Dean turned back to Cas. The angel was still staring at him. “So…?” Cas said.

“So, let’s have a chat with our buddy Manuel.”

Dean started for the little holding room, but Cas didn’t budge. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Nope.” Dean held the door open and motioned for Cas to bring in the prisoner.

Cas finally marched the guy forward, past Dean, and sat him down in a folding chair. Dean grabbed two other chairs and dragged them forward to face Manuel. He and Cas sat down, but before he could ask his first question, Cas spoke up.

“For what it’s worth, I approve.”

“Good to know.” Dean turned to Manuel. “So, Manny—”

“She’s very special. You’ve chosen well,” Cas said.

Dean closed his eyes for a couple seconds, holding in a snarky comment, then opened them again. “Thanks. Can we get on with it?”

Cas held out a hand, motioning him to go ahead, but didn’t wipe off his annoying smile. 

That reminded Dean. “Hey, what’d she want to talk to you about?”

The smile vanished. “Nothing. She just wanted to catch up.”

“We gotta work on your lying skills. What did she want?”

“Nothing.” His eyes darted away.

Dean just sat, waiting.

“It was a private conversation, Dean. Between friends.”

Dean put his hands up. “Fine. I’ll ask her later.” He turned back to his drunk prisoner, hoping Cas’s Spanish skills were less rusty than his lying ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a bonus chapter for you today, loves! Because I'm such a generous, selfless, giving soul. And I'm antsy to get to the good stuff. But mostly it's the generous soul thing.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam ignored the speed limit signs. The straight, empty county road practically demanded he let the Impala stretch her legs. Besides, Dean would’ve gone even faster. He used the drive time to catch Ruthie up on the missing field crew, and why the name ‘Enrique’ might have made Manuel clam up. Ruthie’s hair whipped around her headrest while her hand hung out the window, surfing up and down in the wind. 

“You look happy,” Sam shouted to her over the road noise.

“I am.” She corralled her blowing hair with her left hand so she could look at him. 

“Even though we’re tracking something we have no idea how to contain, let alone kill?”

She shrugged. “We always figure something out. I’m in my favorite car with my best friend, on a mission to save the world—or at least this corner of it. I’m friends with an angel. And my boyfriend has stopped being an idiot.”

Sam grinned. “Finally.”

Ruthie looked out at the road ahead and frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“What, ‘boyfriend?’”

She nodded. “Doesn’t really cover it, after everything we’ve been through. Plus, I feel too old for that word. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend.’ Like it’s for teenagers and twenty-somethings, you know?”

“Ruthie, you’re not that old.”

She ignored him. “And Dean’s definitely too old for it.”

Sam laughed. “Well, whatever you want to call it, I’m just glad you two worked everything out. It’s really good to see you happy. Both of you.”

“It’s because of you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “It’s all thanks to you, pretty much from the beginning. You got Dean to let me out of the bunker. You kept me sane when he was driving me crazy. You found out how to kill Monica; you convinced me I could do it. I know you talked to him for me that night, when I was going to leave. You’re the glue that holds this family together in general.”

Sam glanced between her and the road, his face heating up despite the wind blowing on it through the open window. He didn’t know what to say. Then, a sharp, pungent scent flavored the wind hitting his face, giving him the chance to change the subject. “Can you smell that?”

She turned her face toward her window for a moment. “Onions.”

“We must be getting close.” The field on Ruthie’s side was filled with them: green bunches of pointy stalks, about two feet high. Sam spotted the whitish bulbs at the bottom of the row nearest the road. He scanned the field. Any people would have been easy to spot, unless they were lying flat on the ground. He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he realized that was a distinct possibility. 

“Is this the one they were supposed to be in?” Ruthie asked. 

Sam checked the upcoming road sign. “Here’s 240 East, so yeah, this should be the one.”

“Hey, look,” she said, pointing through the window. “It looks like somebody drove onto the field.”

Sure enough, Sam spotted twin tire tracks, flattening the crops, heading into the field. Whatever vehicle had driven in there was gone now, though. “Let’s check it out.” He pulled off into the grass on the side of the road. Ruthie went to open her door. “Wait a sec,” he said, and pulled out his phone. “I need to show you this.” He pulled up the photo of Rachel Schultz. “She’s our best guess as to who Azar’s possessing now. So if we see her, we hightail it.”

She raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. “Dean’s orders?”

“Yeah. But I figure if we get lucky enough to spot her, we’ll hang back and keep an eye on her from a distance.”

“That sounds better.”

He showed her his screen and took a second look for himself, memorizing Rachel’s short, nearly-white hair, flat nose with a silver nose ring, and big smile. Although, if they did find her, he doubted she’d still be wearing the smile. Ruthie studied the picture, then nodded.

They climbed out and Sam went to the trunk. He fished around until he found what he was looking for. 

“The demon knife?” Ruthie asked, looking surprised.

“I don’t know whether it will do any good or not,” he admitted, tucking it into the back of his waistband. “But it’s better than nothing. In case we get cornered and can’t run.” He and Dean hadn’t survived this long by failing to plan for contingencies. He double-checked that his mag was full, racked the slide, and holstered his pistol. “You good?” he asked.

She patted her sidearm in answer. 

They started off through the field, following the tracks. The smell of onions rising off the crushed plants was overpowering. Sam’s eyes started watering. 

“What do you think Manuel saw?” Ruthie asked in a quiet voice.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing good. But at least he got away.”

“Only by selling his soul. All the alcohol he can drink, right?” 

She had a point.

Sam scanned the field all around them, including the direction they’d come from. He didn’t want anyone or anything sneaking up on them. The tracks led toward the northeast corner of the field. He and Ruthie kept following them, walking in silence. The late afternoon sun seemed about three feet overhead, baking the field like a broiler oven. Ruthie’s dark hair shone with blue streaks in the blazing light. She grabbed her ponytail and waved the end of it like a fan over the back of her neck. Sweat beads formed on her forehead, but she didn’t complain. 

Sam wiped his own forehead with his sleeve. “Hey, I see something.”

“What? I can’t see anything.”

“That’s because you’re short,” he teased her.

“Am not, you giant freak.”

“Come on.” He led the way toward the object he'd spotted on the ground ahead. He and Ruthie stopped where the tire tracks ended in a big circle, as though the vehicle had turned around. Nearby lay a couple dozen red mesh bags filled with onions. 

“Look,” Ruthie said, holding up an abandoned water bottle. “Why would they leave this behind? It’s so hot.”

“Why would they leave at all?” Sam asked in a grim voice. He studied the tire tracks. “The vehicle stopped here, then the driver cranked the wheel before taking off again. See?” He showed her the marks in the field where the soft dirt had been shoved to the right, leaving two ridges.

“I see it. And look here. Are these footprints?”

Sam followed her pointing finger. Sure enough, a messy trail of compressed soil ran roughly parallel to the tracks, where the vehicle had been stopped. They all turned at the same spot, crossed over one tire track, then turned back the direction they’d come, but only for a couple feet. Then they disappeared.

A chill shivered down Sam’s spine despite the hot sun. One look at Ruthie’s face told him she understood, too.

“He loaded them up,” she murmured. “All of them.”

Sam gritted his teeth and nodded.

“But where did he take them? And how did he convince them to go without burning anyone up?”

He wished he knew. He pulled his radio from his back pocket, twisted on the power control, and squeezed the talk button. “Hey, Dean?” He let go and waited several seconds before trying again. “Dean, we got something. Can you hear me?” He waited again, roasting, wishing he’d left his suit jacket in the car. No answer. Great. They’d just blown their money on these stupid radios and now they still had no way to communicate.

Ruthie sighed, switched on her radio, and held it up several inches from her mouth. “Bo, this is Daisy. Come in, over.”

One second later, their radios crackled. “Daisy, I read you, over.”

Sam rolled his eyes, wondering for the millionth time how his brother was still an actual six year old. “We found tracks in the field. We think he loaded them into a truck or something.”

A long pause. Then Dean’s tinny voice saying, “Call sign? Over.”

Sam stared at Ruthie in disbelief. 

“You might as well get it over with,” she said. “He won’t talk to you until you do.”

Sam pressed his lips together and tipped his head back to look at the sky. Fine. _Fine_. “Bo Hazzard, this is Luke Hazzard, come in, over.”

“Read you loud and clear, Luke. You say he took them to a secondary location? Over.”

“Affirmative,” Ruthie said. “Location unknown.”

“Copy. I’ll ask our witness about it. Over.”

“Get anything from the witness yet?” Sam asked.

There was a pause. “Negative. Cooter played good cop for a while. Now he’s playing bad cop. It’s going exactly how you’d imagine. Over.”

Sam could almost hear Dean’s eyes rolling. 

“We’ll keep you posted,” Ruthie said.

“Copy that. Over and out.”

Sam and Ruthie clipped their walkies to their back pockets and headed back toward the car. 

He shot her a sideways look. “Cradle robber.”

“Huh?”

“I think what you’re doing is technically illegal. Don’t you think you should wait until he mentally turns eighteen?”

Ruthie laughed. “You love him, too.”

“I’m stuck with him: we’re related. You chose him.”

Her laugh softened into an affectionate expression. “You would, too. If you had to choose a brother, out of anyone in the world, you’d choose him.”

She was right, of course. But he was still male enough not to agree out loud. “It looks like he followed the same path back out onto the road,” he said, gesturing at the tracks again.

She nodded. “And from there, we’ve got no way of knowing where he went.”

Sam thought as they walked. “But the crew went missing sometime today, right? And Manuel had time to get back into town, get loaded at the bar, and get arrested between the time they were taken and when we saw him. So he couldn’t have taken them very far, right?”

“Makes sense,” Ruthie said. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to drive around a bit, see if we find anything. Hey, look!”

They’d emerged from the field, and Ruthie was pointing at the grass between the onions and the road. Two tire tracks flattened the grass, curving north. “He turned that way.”

“Good eye.”

They got into the car, and Sam tossed his jacket into the back seat. He wished, not for the first time, that the Impala had air conditioning. Once, he’d mentioned to Dean that they should get one installed. He’d endured an epic tongue-lashing for daring to suggest Baby wasn’t perfect just the way she was. Dean hadn’t let him drive for a month. 

He and Ruthie buckled up, and he pulled back onto the road. There wasn’t much out here, just rows of trees between some of the fields, and farmhouses and silos in the distance. 

“What are we looking for?” Ruthie asked. 

“I’m not sure. Suspicious looking trucks, maybe? Somewhere you could take ten people and not be visible from the road?” He kept going, scanning the view out his window while Ruthie searched hers. 

“Sam, look,” she said, a note of excitement in her voice. “Slow down.”

He obeyed, and looked where she was pointing. A dirt path cut through the soybean field on her side. It curved and disappeared behind the plants, but off in the middle of the field stood a small, rickety old barn. 

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Worth a look.” He pulled off the road again and made his way slowly up the dirt trail. Dust billowed behind them. Staying ahead of the dust clouds was easy; there was no breeze at all. He followed the curving track through the soybeans right up to the abandoned barn. It was actually pretty picturesque; the decaying brown barn contrasted with light blue sky and a row of leafy green trees in the background. 

Ruthie leaned forward in her seat to see better. “No vehicles here.” 

“Probably wouldn’t have hung around,” Sam said. “C’mon, let’s have a look. We’ll check the outside first.” Hunter protocol. _Locate all exits. Check the perimeter._ He pulled out his radio. “Bo, this is Luke, come in.”

Their radios hissed. “This is Bo, go ahead, over.”

“We found an abandoned barn about a mile north of the field. Checking it out now.” _Keep your partner updated on your location._

“Copy that. Over.”

He led Ruthie around the outside of the barn at a safe distance. The thin, hard layer of dirt along the back wall did show tracks and footprints, but they were too faint to be of any use. No telling how old they were. He should’ve found out when it had last rained. He pulled out his phone to check. No signal. Of course. He wished it would go ahead and rain right now. Some wind, some water, anything to cool him off. 

One big sliding door stood halfway open on the back wall. Sam tried to peer into the barn, but he was too far from the door to make out much besides some empty bottles in the rectangle of light it let in. He kept going, around the side facing the treeline, where a gray silo stood at the far corner. Past the silo, along the wall facing the road, and back to where they’d started. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t let your guard down. Let’s see what’s inside.”

Ruthie nodded and followed him. On his way to the door, an unsettled feeling plucked at his stomach. He didn’t question it; he just drew his gun. _Trust your instincts._ Behind him, he heard Ruthie follow suit. 

The breeze he’d been wishing for picked up, blowing from the west. The barn blocked any cooling effect. But it didn’t block the smell. Ash. Decay. Death. 

They were in the right place.

He shot a questioning glance back at Ruthie. Her wide eyes and wrinkled nose told him she knew they’d find something unpleasant inside. The determined set of her jaw told him she wasn’t waiting in the car, so he might as well save his breath. 

Sam edged into the dark barn, stepping to his left, out of the rectangle of light, letting Ruthie follow him inside. He made room for her next to him in the dark. Their eyes would adjust more quickly here. A few narrow shafts of light shone from holes in the walls and roof, scattering bright spots on the dirt floor. He scanned the open area, willing his eyes to make sense of the shadows. 

He waited the space of three breaths, then their surroundings started to come into focus: broken boards and dead leaves piled against the opposite wall, an overturned bucket in the middle of the floor. And—there. At the far end of the barn, near the opening to the silo. Two bodies on the floor. One misshapen and burnt black, far beyond recognition. The other unburned, but covered in blood. Ruthie sucked in a sharp breath—she’d seen them, too. 

He started toward them slowly, gun still at the ready. But there was no one else in the barn. Unless… He walked past the bodies, eyes glued to the silo in the corner. Bent down to check inside. Empty. A sour smell wafted from the hot silo; flies buzzed over a puddle of half-dried vomit. He straightened up and joined Ruthie, looking down at the corpses. Short lengths of knotted rope, frayed at the ends, littered the ground at his feet. 

Rachel Schultz’s bleach-blonde pixie cut and silver nose ring were unmistakable. Her pretty face had frozen in a look of terror. A heavy weight dropped into his stomach. Poor woman. Not to mention their best lead was gone now. But what he couldn’t understand, what made no sense at all, was how she had died.

“Werewolf?” Ruthie said, sounding just as confused as Sam felt. 

“That’s what it looks like.” That’s exactly what it looked like. If he’d run across this body under any other circumstances, there wouldn’t have been a doubt in his mind. It looked as though a small bomb had gone off inside her chest, skin and bone blown outward, a big messy hole where her heart should have been. Textbook werewolf. 

He moved toward the other body. Except, he could see now, it wasn’t one body. One lay flat on the floor, and the second seemed hunched over it. The fire had melded them together like a single macabre sculpture. They reminded Sam of the preserved bodies at Pompeii, killed in an instant by volcanic ash. It was impossible to tell the age or gender of the victims. He was sure they’d deserved better, whoever they were.

Ruthie stepped closer to the burned bodies, crouching down to examine them. She focused on the area beneath the hunching figure’s head. “Sam, look at this.” She pointed to a hollowed-out space in the charred torso of the body underneath. “Looks like this heart is missing, too.”

She was right, again. He nodded, trying to come up with a theory to fit the evidence. 

She stood up, forehead creased. “What is going on here?”

He shook his head and pulled out his radio. He didn’t bother with call signs this time. “We’ve got three bodies, including Rachel Schultz. The other two were burned. Two missing their hearts.”

Ruthie stood, watching him silently during the long pause that followed. Then their radios crackled and Dean’s voice rang out in the barn. “Say again?”

“You heard me. It’s not just the demon. We’ve got a werewolf, too.”

Sam lowered his radio, returning Ruthie’s troubled gaze. 

Her eyes shifted left, behind him, and flew wide open. She yanked out her gun, aimed it at the door, and shouted, “Freeze!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn. Concerns? Predictions? Feels? Lay 'em on me.


	11. Chapter 11

Ruthie kept her gun trained on the silhouette in the open door, her heart pulsing in her throat. Sam spun around, drawing his gun, too. 

The man in the doorway put his hands up. “Don’t shoot!” he begged in a heavy Spanish accent. “Please. I need help.”

“Who are you?” Sam demanded, not lowering his gun.

“I am Enrique Macías.”

Enrique. The unofficial leader of the missing field workers. Ruthie’s throbbing heart gave a lurch. This was either an eyewitness and their best lead so far, or she and Sam were trapped in this barn with Azar. 

Either way, her gun was pointless. She holstered it and pretended to feel calm. “Enrique, we’ve been looking for you. Can you tell us what happened?”

The man kept his hands up, his eyes on Sam’s weapon. “He took us from the field. He had a gun. He told us to get in the van or he would shoot us all.” His voice turned bitter. “We should have let him.”

“And he brought you here?” Sam asked.

Enrique nodded. “To her.” He pointed at Rachel Schultz’s body. 

Ruthie sidestepped to her left, to get a better look at the man’s face, trying to read him. “So who had the gun?” Ruthie asked. “Who was he?”

“Her servant,” he said, then shuddered. “A monster.”

She exchanged a glance with Sam. Azar had a werewolf working for him? Their werewolf had been radio silent since Reeds Spring, when he’d recruited a small army of monsters to fight alongside him. Could this be the same one? Aligning itself with a powerful ally, still hoping for revenge? 

“Then what happened?” Sam asked. 

Enrique’s face hardened. “She wanted us to sell our souls. My grandson, Felipe, was first.” The man tilted up his chin. “He refused.”

The man’s emotions all rang true. Ruthie didn’t pick up any signs he was lying. She told herself to relax—not an easy task in these circumstances. “What did she do?” Ruthie asked quietly. 

Now his chin quivered. He lowered one hand to point at the blackened bodies on the floor. A tight ache squeezed Ruthie’s throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. He holstered his gun. 

Enrique watched him cautiously for a another few seconds, then lowered both hands. “But who are you?” he asked. “You are not with the police? And you do not think I am crazy?”

“We believe you,” Sam said. 

The short man stared at Sam and Ruthie in wonder. “You have seen these things before?”

Ruthie didn’t answer his question. “Enrique, if the monster was her servant, why did he kill her? Did you see something happen to her before that?”

He nodded silently, eyes wide. Ruthie stayed quiet, waiting.

The old man swallowed, darting a glance at Rachel’s body. “She opened her mouth, and smoke came out. A lot of it. Red smoke.”

“Where did it go?” Sam asked, his voice tense.

Enrique looked at him. Slowly, the nervousness fell away from his lined face. A skin-crawling smile stretched his lips wide. “Into me.”

Ruthie froze, a cold wave crashing over her as if she’d been doused with ice water. Then her heart started pumping again, hard and fast. The muggy heat closed around her; her whole body started sweating. Demons could access the memories and feelings of the people they possessed. He’d tricked her. She looked at Sam. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes fixed on Enrique—on Azar. His right hand reached behind his back. She didn’t know whether he was going for the demon knife or his radio. 

Ruthie jolted as a second figure appeared in the doorway. A stocky man with a beard and a hateful, yellow-toothed grin. 

It was him. The werewolf who’d burst into her cabin. Dean had shot him with her dad’s twelve gauge; she’d watched him crash to the floor. But he had come back, just like Dean said he would. Teamed up with a witch and a dozen other monsters to kill Sam and Dean. Used Ruthie to ambush them. It was because of him that Dean had nearly killed her. 

And now he was about to get his long-sought revenge on the Winchesters. Half of it, at least.

“Hiya, Sammy,” the werewolf said. “Don’t think we’ve ever actually met.”

“I know who you are,” Sam snapped, his face tight with anger despite their peril. 

Azar strolled forward, running his eyes over Sam as though he were a prize thoroughbred. “Lucifer’s vessel,” he said in an admiring tone, his Spanish accent gone. 

Sam winced. Ruthie knew he hadn’t been called that for a long time. 

Realization slammed into her like a punch to the gut. Azar was burning through vessels. Crowley had said so. And now, here was an upgrade. A vessel that might hold him longer than a day or two—maybe a lot longer. A solution to his problem. 

A crackle echoed in the barn. “Luke, you got anything else? Over.”

Azar tilted his head to one side, looking curious. “What’s this?”

“That was the brother,” the werewolf said.

After a pause, Sam answered. “It’s a radio.” He held his left hand up in surrender pose, and slowly pulled the radio out with his right. He held it up for Azar to see. 

“Don’t let him answer,” the werewolf warned. 

Azar didn’t move, just kept his eyes on Sam, a little half smile on his face. Sam looked back, holding the radio. Ruthie watched them both, hardly daring to breathe. 

Sam squeezed the talk button; his mouth formed the sound “D.” Instantly, Azar made a single waving motion with his hand, and Sam flew through the air, slamming into the wall. He stuck there, arms splayed, held in place by an invisible force. The impact knocked the radio out of his hand; it fell to the floor.

“Luke, come in, over,” it said.

Ruthie snatched her radio and pressed the button. Something hard and fast crashed into her, knocking the breath out of her lungs and the radio out of her hand. She would have fallen, but vice-like arms caught her, then clamped around her from behind. Wet, hot breath polluted the air to the right of her face, and sent chills of revulsion scuttling over her skin. 

“Daisy, come in; this isn’t funny.” Dean sounded anxious. And he’d forgotten to say “Over.”

She longed to answer him, to tell him to stay away. To say “I love you” one more time. Had she really only said it once?

The werewolf kicked her radio across the floor to Azar. The old man stooped and picked it up. “Demanding, isn’t he, your brother?” he asked Sam. Then he switched it off. He picked up Sam’s radio and did the same. “Now we can continue, undisturbed.” He stepped around to face Sam, who glared at him through narrowed eyes. 

Sam hung there on the age-worn wall, pinned like an insect on display. His right arm stretched straight out; his left angled down toward his side. His hands clenched, straining against the power holding him there. 

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Sam Winchester,” Azar said. 

“How do you know who I am?” Sam asked through clenched teeth. 

“My associate,” he said simply, gesturing to the werewolf holding Ruthie in an unshakeable grip. “He has been a valuable source of information.” He inclined his head toward the werewolf. “You were right. My performance as Enrique put them off their guard.”

Ruthie was close enough to actually hear the wolf smile: the wet slither of lips across teeth, the rustle of whiskers bunching up against one another. She shuddered. 

“We don’t need this one,” the werewolf said to Azar. “I can take care of her right now if you want.”

Sam jerked against the wall, chest heaving, eyes desperate and blazing. 

Azar watched him for a moment. Keeping his eyes on Sam, he asked, “What are the chances the brother is on his way?”

The werewolf shrugged. “Depends. If he knows where they are, pretty good. Eighty plus. Doesn’t matter, though. I’ll be done long before he gets here.”

Azar still gazed at Sam. “Is she important to them?”

“Yeah. She goes everywhere with them. Their groupie.”

“Well, then. Let’s keep her for now.”

The werewolf grumbled under its breath, heating her neck even more, sending sweat trickling down her back. 

Azar spun toward the wolf. “What was that?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing, boss,” the monster muttered. 

Another voice spoke in low, harsh tones. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…” Sam glared at Azar, enunciating each word. “Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…”

Azar’s face contorted; his chest jerked outward. He let out a pained grunt, as though he’d been punched in the stomach.

Sam raised his voice. “Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte—”

Azar flung his arm toward Sam and made a fist. Sam broke off with a choking sound, his mouth working, face turning red.

Ruthie jumped in, speaking the Latin as quickly as she could. “Ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire—”

A hairy hand clamped over her mouth, pointed claws jabbing into her cheek. “Nice try, sweetheart,” the werewolf growled low in her ear. 

Azar stared at Sam, looking stern. “I respect your attempt at heroism,” he said. “I expected nothing less. But if you ever try to exorcise me again, I will burn her to death before your eyes. Do you understand?” 

Sam was turning blue. Ruthie twisted in the werewolf’s grip, but it was useless. Sam gave a tiny nod, and Azar opened his fist. Sam sucked in a strangled gasp, then coughed and gasped again. 

Azar strolled over to Sam, studying him again like a masterpiece hanging in a museum. “If souls determined their vehicle’s strength, I might not need you.” He gestured down at Enrique’s body. “This one, he is strong. Honorable, noble. I wanted his soul badly. The banquet it would have been…” He gazed wistfully at nothing for a moment. “But do you know what he said to me? ‘For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his soul?’” Azar chuckled. “Wise man. He knows the Scriptures. My loss. But now, look at what I have.” He held out both hands, indicating Sam, as though the demon were a spokesmodel displaying a new sports car. “Lucifer’s true vessel. Channeling my power through you, I will have full control. I will have all the time I need. I will take all the souls I require.” He let out a contented sigh and admired Sam a little longer. 

“Now then,” he said, and threw back his head. A thick column of brick red smoke poured out of his mouth and flew at Sam. Without thinking, Ruthie tried to rush forward to him, but the hairy arm clinched tighter around her arms and ribcage, crushing the breath out of her. 

Sam turned his head to one side, trying to avoid the smoke. It surged into his mouth—no. Against his mouth. It couldn’t seem to get in. It piled back onto itself, repelled by an unseen force. 

Of course. His tattoo. Ruthie sagged with relief. Sam couldn’t be possessed. 

The smoke retreated, back into Enrique. His mouth snapped shut; he whirled around, advancing on Ruthie and the werewolf. His eyes glowed entirely red, with vertical black slits for pupils. Ruthie cringed back against the werewolf, far less frightened of the monster than its master. 

“You said there would be no obstacle,” Azar hissed. “You told me I would not have to receive his permission.”

“You don’t!” The werewolf’s voice was tight with confusion and fear. “He must be warded somehow, or maybe he did some spell. I’m sure you can break it.”

“Warded how?” Azar demanded.

“I don’t know,” the wolf said. “I’ve been trying to kill them, not possess them. You’re a demon. Don’t you know any ways hunters might try to keep from getting possessed?”

Azar’s red eyes narrowed dangerously. “I have been on Earth for all of ten days. You were supposed to be my world-wise assistant, my expert on all things Winchester.”

“And I got you this far,” the werewolf growled. “He’s right there, isn’t he?”

Azar kept glaring at the werewolf, who seemed to shrink under his gaze. His grip tightened around Ruthie, then he grabbed her upper arms and thrust her forward, inches from Azar. “Use her,” the werewolf barked. “Use her to get him to tell you what’s wrong.”

In Ruthie’s peripheral vision, Sam grappled against his invisible restraints, his whole body straining with effort. 

After another taut moment of silence, Azar turned to Sam. “Well then, Sam. Will you tell me what I want to know and save us all some time, and your friend much pain? Or must we go through the motions?”

Ruthie caught Sam’s eye, and gave her head the slightest shake. _Don’t tell him._

A tendon stood out from Sam’s neck. His lips compressed and his nostrils flared; his eyes shone in the dim barn. He said nothing. 

“Very well,” Azar said. He extended a leathery hand toward Ruthie’s face. 

At six inches away, she could already feel the heat pouring off his fingers. She recoiled, but couldn’t go far, immobile in the werewolf’s iron grasp. The fiery hand kept coming, its radiant heat already searing her cheek. She stretched her neck back as far as she could, gritting her teeth, bracing for the moment of contact—

“Stop!” Sam shouted. “Stop. I have an anti-possession symbol. It’s permanent; you can’t possess me. Hurting her won’t help you.” He breathed hard, looking frightened and furious at once. 

Azar blinked, and his eyes were dark brown again. “A symbol, you say?” he asked. “And it’s permanent…” He lowered his hand, removing the scorching heat from her cheek. Ruthie sagged in relief for the second time in as many minutes. But only for a moment, because now Azar was walking back across the floor toward Sam, stepping right up in front of him. Sam stared down at him, jaw clenched. Azar lifted both hands, palms toward Sam, and held them out wide, each one hovering about an inch from Sam’s wrists. Slowly, he moved his hands along Sam’s arms, traveling over his forearms, past his biceps, pausing at his shoulders. Then he continued inward, along his collarbone, halting just before his hands met in the center. He stood very still for one second, then two. “Here,” he said with triumph in his voice. “I can feel it.” He tucked the fingers of both hands into Sam’s shirt, into the space between the top two buttons, and ripped it open. Several white buttons went flying across the room, landing silently in the thick dust. 

Sam’s tattoo was laid bare. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling. He glared at Azar, his chin jutting out in defiance. 

“Brilliant!” Azar sounded delighted. “Of course, only a temporary barrier for me, but I imagine most effective against lesser demons.” He gave Sam one more admiring grin.“Oh, I _am_ going to enjoy you.” He raised his right hand toward the tattoo. A red glow emanated from his palm, illuminating the pentagram and sunburst waves on Sam’s skin. Sam gritted his teeth so hard they made a grinding noise. He closed his eyes.

“No!” Ruthie screamed. “Take me instead. I don’t have a tattoo, just a pendant. You can take it off.” She scrambled to think of more reasons, some way to persuade the demon she was a better choice. “If you burn him, he’ll be damaged; he’ll get infected. You don’t want a damaged, infected vessel, do you? He’ll be weak. Take me.”

To her surprise, Azar paused. He peered at her, something like amusement flickering over his weather-beaten face. He lowered his hand. Sam exhaled. Azar turned slowly, with purpose, and walked toward Ruthie. 

She hadn’t really expected to change his mind. Now her thoughts raced: what would it feel like to be possessed? Would she be aware of everything he did while he was controlling her body? How long before she couldn’t contain him and she burned up, like the others? Would it hurt? 

Or maybe she hadn’t changed his mind at all. Maybe she had only bought Sam a few more minutes, and the demon just wanted to toy with her. A cat, playing with a hogtied mouse.

Azar stepped up close, studying her face. “What is your name?”

She glanced at Sam, but he didn’t give her a sign one way or the other, only a desperate look. She figured she had nothing to lose. “Ruthie.”

“Ruthie,” the demon said, rolling her name across his tongue as though it were a fine wine. “You wish to sacrifice your body for your friend. Or perhaps he is more than a friend?”

_He’s my brother._ She didn’t say it out loud. Azar already had all the leverage he needed.

“You know, I believe, what has happened to my other vessels?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“And yet you volunteer.” His eyes flashed with something like greed. “What do you want most in the world, Ruthie?”

Was he trying to open negotiations for her soul? She’d never do that, never sell her soul. 

Or would she? Did she have some leverage after all? What if she could save Sam?

At the very least, she could try to buy more time. 

“I want you to let Sam go.”

“Ah,” Azar breathed a sad sigh. “That, I cannot do. Anything else. Ask me for anything else, Ruthie, and it can be yours.”

She held his gaze, drew herself up as tall as she could with the werewolf holding her down. “I want you to go to Hell.”

He threw his head back and let out a hearty, authentic laugh. “Ruthie, Ruthie.” He came a step closer and reached out to touch her face. She cringed away, but his fingers weren’t hot this time. He caressed her chin, like an affectionate grandfather, and spoke in a low, soft voice. “How I wish you would sell me your soul. I confess, I desire it more than any I have yet found. Perhaps, sooner or later, you will change your mind. Perhaps I will find a way to persuade you.”

He let his hand drop from her face. “You are worthless to me as a vessel. Your soul may be worth a thousand others, but your body is as frail as the rest.” He reached out, took hold of the chain hanging around her neck, and pulled her anti-possession pendant out from beneath her shirt. “Silver,” he observed, turning the pendant various angles. “A pretty thing. But so easily removed.” He glanced back at Sam. “Why do you not wear a permanent one, like him?”

She didn’t answer. She tried to think, tried to come up with some plan, some way out, but there was nothing. She couldn’t distract them so Sam could run, because Sam couldn’t move. She couldn’t reach her gun, which would be useless anyway, because she couldn’t move. Neither she nor Sam could get to the demon knife in his waistband, because they couldn’t move.

Azar’s face lit up. “I know. I shall give you a permanent one. As a sign of goodwill. To prove I never intend to possess you. To prove all I desire is your soul.” He focused on the pendant between his thumb and forefinger. 

As Ruthie watched, the edges of the silver symbol turned orange. The color spread inward until the whole pendant was yellow-orange, and heat distortions shimmered off of it in waves.

Her heart began to pound in earnest, thudding painfully against her ribs. She couldn’t take her eyes off the glowing pentagram. She tried to push herself backward, but the clawed hands clenched tighter, biting into her arms. The wolf pressed his chest into her back, immovable as a brick wall.

With his free hand, Azar pulled her shirt aside, baring her skin in the same spot Sam’s tattoo lay. He moved the pendant closer, adjusting its position like an artist determined to paint the perfect brushstroke. Left of center. Below the collarbone.

“Don’t!” Sam yelled. “Azar, I swear—”

The incandescent silver burned into Ruthie’s skin with a sickening sizzle. She screamed without hearing herself, without hearing anything. All her other senses failed; there was only the pain, the brand burning its way down through her skin. She screamed again; he was still burning her. She’d never felt physical pain this intense, this immediate, not even when she’d drawn blood directly from her heart.

Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the pain faded. _Third degree burn_ , her nurse brain narrated. _Pain receptors destroyed._

The pressure lifted. The red hot metal was gone, leaving a sunburn ache smoldering in its wake. Her senses came back, muted by shock. Sam’s voice, shouting curses, calling her name. The acrid smell of burnt flesh stinging her nose and churning her stomach. 

Then, the familiar click of a hammer being cocked, and another voice, one she knew as well as her own.

“Get away from her, you son of a bitch.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have to ask: Did I screw up by getting Dean and Ruthie together? Did I kill the romantic tension and now nobody cares how the story ends? Or is this installment just subpar? Reader interaction has nosedived since the last book. I really want to finish strong for these characters and for you, my readers, but I’m steadily losing my mojo and starting to wonder what’s the point. Anyway, sorry to be a buzzkill. If updates stop coming on Saturdays, it means I’ve decided to focus on my next novel for a bit instead. I hope you’re all well, my dears!


	12. Chapter 12

Dean stood halfway between Ruthie and the door, leveling his gun at Azar.

Azar dropped the pendant. It bounced once off Ruthie’s shirt; she hunched forward to keep the hot metal from resting against her. It dangled from its chain, heating her skin but not burning her. The werewolf’s breathing accelerated. Dean locked eyes with Ruthie, his expression asking the silent question, _Are you okay?_ She wasn’t, of course. Nothing was okay. She could have her throat ripped out any second, Azar was going to mutilate and possess Sam, and Dean had no way to stop any of it. She realized she wasn’t even glad to see Dean. Now all three of them were at Azar’s mercy. 

“Ah, you must be Sam’s brother. Dean, is it?” Azar sounded like a dinner party hostess, greeting a new guest at the door. “I have looked forward to meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

Azar chuckled, then looked back and forth between the two men. “The true vessels of Michael and Lucifer. Both here. You came straight to me. I can simply take my pick. Excellent.”

Dean darted a glance at Sam, who returned his gaze, looking grim and apologetic. Ruthie watched as Dean processed what Azar had said. “What makes you think we won’t burn up just like the others?” he asked. “You’re not an archangel.”

“No,” Azar agreed. “But if you can contain an archangel, you ought to contain me. It’s logical. If it doesn’t work, I shall be disappointed, certainly. But I’ll be no worse off than before.” The demon gestured at Dean’s gun. “What do you intend to do with that?” He sounded amused.

“This?” Dean displayed the .45. “Oh, this is for him.” He raised his chin toward the werewolf. 

“I see. I understand you have some history with my associate.”

“We go way back.”

“Indeed.” Azar sounded bored with talk of the werewolf. “I must tell you, I am most impressed with all three of you. Such defiance in the face of your doom. Such _spirit_.” He took a step toward Dean. “Tell me, Dean Winchester, what do you want most in the world?”

“Screw you.”

“Whom do you love most in the world?”

Dean didn’t respond. The muscle at the corners of his jaw pulsed once, then his face was stony again.

“I imagine that person is here in this room with us. Am I correct?” Azar strolled several steps to the right, placing himself halfway between Sam and Ruthie. “What would you do to save them, Dean? I assume that’s why you are here. To save them?”

“Actually, I’m just here to keep you talking until the rest of the team gets here. They’re on their way. When they get here, we’re sending your ass straight back to Hell. For good this time. So please, go ahead. Keep talking.” Dean’s teeth clenched, just for a moment.

Ruthie’s stomach plummeted. His tell. He always clenched his teeth like that when he was bluffing.

No one else was coming. They were on their own. 

For several seconds, the only sound in the barn was the weak breeze rustling the soybeans outside. Then Azar’s face split into a wide smile, his white teeth seeming too bright for the dusty space. “Courageous, Dean. But I don’t believe you. I believe you are alone. And that makes your courage all the more impressive, your soul all the more alluring. I will tell you what I told Ruthie: Perhaps one day soon, I will find a way to persuade you. Perhaps I will arrange an offer you cannot refuse.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” If Dean was afraid, it didn’t show. Ruthie wondered what his plan was, or whether he even had one. 

“Ah, yes, I believe you’ve visited Hell before, haven’t you?” Azar asked, lifting his nose in Dean’s direction and inhaling deeply. “I smell it now. But I’m certain I would have remembered you… You must have been Alastair’s guest; that explains it. You didn’t visit the Lake. Well, next time you come, you’ll know your host. Won’t that be nice?” Dean didn’t answer.

Azar turned abruptly away from Dean and walked over to Sam, appraising him again like a butcher sizing up a side of beef. “Dean, as a sign of goodwill, I’m going to give you a choice. I will allow you to choose one of your companions. You may take them and go. I will not follow.”

Dean’s face flickered with uncertainty for the first time. “So you’ll just sic your rabid dog on us, then.”

“No. He will not touch you. You may choose one of them and leave; I give you my word.”

The werewolf hissed, sending a wave of hot, humid breath over Ruthie’s neck. Goosebumps sprouted all over her body. The skin below her collarbone still vibrated withheat and echoes of pain, but Azar’s words gave her a throb of hope. Dean could save Sam. They could stop Azar from burning him, from possessing him. This could buy them time for Crowley to finish his device, for them to figure out a way to send Azar back to Hell. She could hardly believe their luck. Azar’s desire for their souls was the leverage they needed after all. 

Although, she didn’t know what Azar would do with her once Sam and Dean were gone. Nothing good, probably. A chill shivered down her back. But that didn’t matter, she told herself. They’d save her, if they could, once they came back to finish Azar. She could hold on until then. And if she couldn’t… Well, it was more important for Sam to be safe. Far more important. 

“Why should I believe you?” Dean asked, gun still pointed at the werewolf, who had positioned Ruthie between them as a human shield. 

Azar spread his arms wide and looked around the barn. “What other option do you have?” He dropped his arms. “I told you. This is a gesture of goodwill. In the future, when we discuss your soul, you will remember that I could have ended all of you, right here, but I did not.” The chilling smile returned. “Also, your choice will tell me more about you and how to obtain your delectable soul.”

Dean’s nose wrinkled; he looked grossed out. He shot a glance at Sam, then Ruthie. His gaze slid down to the charred symbol burned into her skin, and his jaw clenched. His eyes flashed in the shadows. He turned them on Azar. “So, you want a fancy new archangel vessel, right? You only need one. Take me and let them go.”

“Dean,” Sam and Ruthie began in unison, but Azar held up a hand. A wide smile spread over Enrique’s rugged face, and he looked around at each of them. “I am sensing a pattern with this group.” Then he turned his attention back to Dean. “Are you not warded like your brother?”

Dean pulled aside his shirt enough to reveal the inner edge of his tattoo. Azar’s eyebrows traveled up higher in his forehead. “I see. And still, you volunteer.” He clasped his hands in front of him, grinning. “You three are quite a find. Quite a find.” Then his tone turned businesslike. “Unfortunately, your offer is not acceptable. I am not an admirer of the archangel Michael. Though in practice you and Sam may be equal choices, I cannot pass up the opportunity of using the same vessel as Lucifer himself. The true King of Hell.” He eyed Sam greedily. “It’s a simple matter of personal preference.” He turned back to Dean. “I mean no offense.”

“But if I choose Sam, you’ll let both of us just walk out of here?” Dean’s voice dripped with skepticism.

“I will.” The werewolf made a low rumbling noise in his throat, but Azar ignored it. “I am confident we have not seen the last of each other. I am certain I will acquire what I desire very soon, if not today. I am the Eternal. A short wait means nothing to me. And as I said, your soul intrigues me.”

“We had a deal,” the werewolf growled. “I held up my end.”

“I have not forgotten,” Azar said in a cold voice. “You will have your payment in due time.”

The claws dug deeper into Ruthie’s arms; she held in a cry of pain. 

“ _Now_ is the time! This is what we agreed on. You don’t know them like I do. If you underestimate them, if you let even one of them walk away, they’ll come back and destroy you. And you’ll deserve it for being so damn stupid!”

Azar’s eyes narrowed. Ruthie tried to shrink back as he approached, but the monster still held her out like a shield. From the look on Azar’s face, Ruthie half expected the werewolf to burst into flames. “You forget to whom you speak,” the demon said in a soft, terrifying voice. 

“I just want what I was promised. What I earned,” the werewolf grumbled. 

“You will have it. So long as you remember your place.” He turned back to Dean, all business again. “I am eternal, but my patience is not. Make your choice.”

Dean looked at his brother. Some sort of wordless communication passed between them. The lines in Dean’s face deepened. He looked sorrowful, apologetic. Sam held his gaze. He set his jaw and gave Dean a small nod. 

Ruthie realized what was about to happen an instant before Dean spoke, and fingers of ice wrapped around her stomach. 

“Her,” Dean said with a nod in Ruthie’s direction.

“No!” she shouted. “No, Dean, that’s what he wants.”

But no one listened. “Interesting,” Azar said. Then he nodded at the werewolf, who made another rumbling noise before giving her a rough shove toward Dean. 

She stumbled forward, tripping over a broken board and landing hard on her knees. “No,” she said again as she picked herself up. “Take Sam.”

Dean held his left hand out to her—his right still pointed his gun at the werewolf. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“No.” How many times would she have to say it? And yet, she found herself walking to him, picking up speed, driven by the overpowering desire to feel the comfort of his arms. She glanced over her shoulder: the werewolf was looking mutinous, his yellow eyes blazing, hairy hands balled into fists. Azar ignored them, all his attention focused on Sam. He was standing in front of him now, raising his right hand toward Sam’s tattoo again.

Ruthie reached Dean and grabbed his outstretched arm. “Tell him you changed your mind. Take Sam; you have to save Sam! Dean, please—”

Dean’s gaze was laser-focused behind her. Next came a blur of sound and motion: a vicious snarl, the whistle of something hurtling through the air. Dean’s arm around her shoulders swinging her to the side, an earsplitting _bang_. The werewolf crashed to the ground at Dean’s feet, facedown and motionless. A wisp of smoke wafted from the barrel of the .45. 

Dean glared at the body, then glanced up at Azar. The demon had paused, turning toward the commotion. “He came at us,” Dean said. “And he had it coming.”

Azar looked at the body dispassionately for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to Sam. Sam tore his eyes from Azar’s glowing palm long enough to look at his brother. “Go,” he said through gritted teeth. “Get her out of here.”

Dean held Sam’s gaze a moment longer, then gave him a curt nod. He holstered his gun. His left arm tightened around Ruthie’s shoulders; he put his other hand on her right arm and steered her toward the open door. 

She twisted her head around to see Sam. Azar’s luminous red hand hovered an inch from Sam’s chest. “No,” she whispered, her voice dropping away like her stomach, falling through empty air. Azar’s palm connected with Sam’s skin. There was a hiss, like the sound of raw meat hitting a hot grill. Sam’s head whipped back, smacking the wall, his eyes scrunched tightly closed, his face screwed up into a mask of pain. A growling roar poured through his clenched teeth.

Dean was dragging her now, manhandling her forward as she struggled to get to Sam. She had to make it stop, the grimace on his face, that horrible sizzling sound. But Azar didn’t lift his hand. She could smell it now, the sickening charred-meat smell of burnt flesh. Sam’s mouth opened wide; his roar changed pitch, climbing higher until it was a scream. She could never have imagined such a noise coming out of him. 

Dean hauled her to the door despite her thrashing, his face hard as granite, his jawline so taut it looked like it might snap. The demon lifted his hand off Sam’s chest, and the awful scream died away into ragged panting. Her own voice filled her ears, screaming Sam’s name. The last thing she saw before Dean dragged her out into the fading sunlight was Azar’s eager face tilting upward, his mouth opening wide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As long as I'm writing into the ether, I'll go ahead and shout that yesterday my novel, Second Life, cracked the top 1% of ebooks on Amazon! Squee!
> 
> Alright. Therapist hoosiergirl81 is now available to treat patients for any reading-induced trauma. Tell me how you're feeling.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean urged Baby faster down the straight, empty road. He tried to focus on the rumble of her engine, tried to let it drown out the echoes of Sam’s yells in the barn. Ruthie wept in the passenger seat, hunched over, silent except for intermittent gasping sobs. He’d had to force her into the car. Physically overpowering her wasn’t hard, but tricky when he had to avoid brushing against her burn. She’d undone her top two buttons to keep the fabric of her shirt from touching it. Her olive skin glowed pink around the seared brown image of the pentagram and its surrounding waves. Dean ground his teeth. The sight of it filled him with rage at the demon who’d done it to her. 

“We’ll get him back,” he told her, his voice lower and more gravelly than usual. “We’ll get Sam back.”

She snapped upright; her voice lashed out like a whip. “You should have taken him! Why didn’t you take him? This is exactly what Azar wanted. Now he has Sam; he has his vessel; he’ll be more powerful than ever. And Sam—” she broke off with a choking sound. “Even if we get him back, he’ll be scarred forever. It’ll take a miracle to keep that burn from getting infected. Azar can keep him upright and walking around, but what do we do when we exorcise him and Sam’s septic? He could drop dead the second Azar’s gone.” She sounded like she might throw up. “And you could’ve saved him. You _should_ have saved him.”

Her words sliced into him like steak knives. Dean tried to keep his temper under control. “He wants Sam alive. He’s not gonna let anything happen to him.” She let out an incredulous huff, but he kept on. “You heard him: he doesn’t want you or me or anyone else as a vessel. That means you’re disposable. If he couldn’t get you to sell your soul, he’d kill you. Sam knew it, too. He wanted me to choose you.”

“I don’t care what Sam wanted!” she shouted. “Stopping Azar is more important than me. Keeping Sam alive is more important than me. Don’t you get that?”

“You think I wanted to leave him there?” Dean’s voice rose to match hers; he couldn’t help it, not with Sam’s scream still ringing in his ears. “I had to make a choice, Ruthie. I made the one that would keep both of you alive. And he wouldn’t want you to talk like that. He’s not more important than you.”

Her eyes bulged. She looked shocked, almost offended. “He’s your _brother._ ”

“And you’re my—” He broke off, totally at a loss. What were they?

For several moments, the wind racing past the windows was the only sound in the car. Then Ruthie’s voice, quiet but firm. “See?” 

They rode the rest of the way into town in silence. 

Dean pulled into the police station parking lot. 

“Why are we back here?” Ruthie asked.

“Gotta get Cas. I took his car to the barn when Sam said we had a werewolf on our hands. I wanted to see for myself. Left him here to keep trying with Manuel.” Ruthie followed him into the station and waited in the lobby while he helped Cas get Manuel locked up in one of the two holding cells. The guy was still ranting in Spanish about his _alcol_. 

“Get anything out of him?” Dean asked.

Cas frowned and shook his head.

Dean waited to tell Cas what had happened until they came out and met Ruthie. He figured she’d want to be part of that conversation.

Cas spoke up first as they walked back into the lobby. “So, there’s a werewolf working with—” He stopped the second he saw her, staring at the crisp brown brand in her skin. His face tightened. He shot a searching glance at Dean before looking back at Ruthie. “Did Azar do that to you?”

Her chest hitched; she nodded.

Cas’s expression softened. He stepped toward her, right hand extended. “Here,” he said softly. “Let me.”

She put up a hand to stop him. “Leave it. I’ll treat it and cover it once we get back to the motel. It’ll save the money I would’ve spent on a tattoo.” Then, in a colder voice, “And it will be a reminder.”

Cas didn’t give up. “At least let me speed the healing. Take away the pain.”

She eyed him for a moment, wavering, then lowered her hand and pulled her shirt to the side, revealing the whole symbol. Dean stiffened and clenched his fists, seeing the extent of the damage.

Cas touched two fingertips to the skin just over her collarbone. Dean watched as the brown shape turned bright, shiny red, and scabbed over. Its flushed pink background faded back to olive. Then the scabs melted away, leaving a raised white anti-possession image embossed on her skin. 

Ruthie looked up in wonder. “Thank you. That was amazing.” She swallowed. “Will you…will you be able to fix Sam?”

Cas shot an alarmed look at Dean. “Where’s Sam?”

“You didn’t tell him yet?” Ruthie asked, sounding appalled.

“I was waiting until—nevermind.” He didn’t want to get into it with her again. “Azar has Sam,” he told Cas, his muscles tensing up again. “Burned off his tattoo and possessed him. He thinks since Sam was Lucifer’s true vessel, he’ll last longer than the others. Been waiting for us, apparently. Our werewolf pal tipped him off.”

Cas’s eyes were wide, but his mouth thinned. “Do you think he’s right? Azar? Will Sam be able to contain him?”

“Don’t know. But I’m not gonna take a chance. We’re getting Sam back in the next forty-eight hours.” He glanced at his watch. “Forty-seven.”

“So, we’re not just up against the demon,” Cas said, “but a werewolf too.”

“Not anymore,” Dean said with grim satisfaction. “I shot the son of a bitch.”

“You had silver bullets,” Ruthie said, realization clearly dawning on her for the first time. “How did you…?”

“Sam said werewolf. I switched mags. I’ve kept a spare loaded with silver on me ever since Reeds Spring.”

A look of grudging admiration spread over her face. God, she was pretty. He didn’t know how he’d ever managed to keep his hands off her for so long. “So what do we do?” she asked. “How do we get him back?”

The door squeaked; the three of them turned to see who’d just come in, shielding their eyes from the late evening sun blazing through the glass doors. 

“Father Murray,” Ruthie said. 

Dean had forgotten all about the priest. Had they really just met him earlier that morning? It felt like a year ago. Back before a hellfire demon had made him choose between his brother and the woman he loved. 

“Oh. I didn’t expect to find you here,” the priest said. “I came to speak to Sheriff Watts.”

“He left,” Dean said. “But you’re just in time. We need all hands on deck.” He looked around at all of them. “We gotta exorcise Azar without getting cremated. Ideas?”

Everyone glanced around at each other. No one said anything. 

Finally, Father Murray spoke up. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman.” He tipped his head toward Cas.

“I’m Castiel.” Cas held out his hand for the priest to shake. 

“Castiel,” Father Murray repeated. Then his eyes widened. “Cas…” He turned to Dean. “You said Cas was…” He trailed off, waiting for someone to finish his sentence.

“I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Father Murray stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re… I’m sorry, I’m… Are you all pulling my leg?”

“He’s an angel. Get over it.” Dean didn’t have time for this. Sam didn’t have time.

The priest swallowed and shook Cas’s hand again. “Forgive me. It’s an honor. Such an honor. I’m Father Murray.” He made an awkward little bow, looking awestruck.

“Great. Now that we’ve got that out of the way—”

“Where is Sam?” Father Murray asked.

Dean gritted his teeth. “Azar has him. He’s possessing him.” He was getting really sick of saying those words. 

The priest’s face fell. “I’m so sorry.” His tone made it sound like Sam had died.

“We’re gonna get him back,” Dean said again, raising his voice. “We need a plan. We know we gotta exorcise Azar. And we gotta make sure there’s nobody around he can smoke into once he’s out of Sam—he’ll torch us and take Sam right back.”

“How do we keep him from torching us to begin with? Before we exorcise him?” Ruthie asked.

“I don’t know. That’s why we’re brainstorming.”

They were all quiet again for a minute. “We need to use any leverage we have,” Ruthie said. “And exploit any weakness he has.”

“Okay. Like what?” Dean asked.

“He wants our souls. He seemed to want them pretty bad.”

“That’s not an option.” Dean couldn’t believe she’d even bring it up.

“Of course not. But we could let him think so.”

“You’re talking about being bait.” Dean hated the idea of her being anywhere near Azar again. He could still hear her skin hissing under the pendant.

“I’m brainstorming,” she snapped. “And he said he wanted to meet us again, to try and get our souls.”

He held his hands up. “Okay, okay. What about his weaknesses?”

“Well, if you’re right about him not wanting anything to happen to Sam, that’s a limitation. He can’t spontaneously combust or risk setting a fire like the Chillicothe warehouse, because he’d lose the vessel he wanted so much.”

She was right. He should’ve thought of that. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Maybe we can use that.”

“Why did he want Sam as a vessel?” Father Murray asked.

“Long story,” Dean said. “Okay. So we need to get him out of Sam before he can turn us into Roman candles. It has to be somewhere no one else is around for him to possess. Which means we need to choose the location. We have to get him to come to us.”

“Sam already tried to exorcise him once. Before you got there,” Ruthie said in a small voice. “Azar choked him. From across the barn.”

Hot blood rushed to Dean’s face as he pictured the demon Darth Vadering his brother. That son of a bitch was going back to Hell if it was the last thing Dean ever did. “Well,” he said, “it won’t be just the two of you this time. There’ll be four of us, and we’ll have a plan.”

“That’s hurtful,” came an obnoxious, oily voice right behind Dean.

“Son of a—”

“Witch,” Crowley finished for him. He was wearing his usual black shirt and coat with a tie, and holding a black case. “I see five of us.” He nodded at Cas. “Castiel.” Then Ruthie. “Girl Squirrel.” He gave Father Murray a quick glance. “New member of the club? I don’t suppose he’s headed to a costume party.” His lips curled as he eyed the priest’s clerical collar.

“I’m Father Murray.” He held out his hand, which Crowley ignored. “You…just appeared in here,” the priest said.

“I know all sorts of useful tricks,” Crowley said, glancing around the group. “Where’s Third Wheel?”

Dean shut his eyes and blew out an irritated breath. 

Ruthie answered for him. “Azar has him. Turns out he wanted Sam specifically. For his vessel.”

Crowley eyed her for a second. “Lucifer’s vessel. That clever bastard.”

Dean’s eyes popped open. “Will it work? Will Sam be able to hold him?”

Crowley shrugged. “No way to know for sure, but it’s logical.”

“Tell me you’re here because you know how to send him back to Hell.”

“Not exactly.”

“Damn it, Crowley—”

“Crowley?” Father Murray repeated, turning pale.

Crowley studied the priest, a smug expression on his face. He put his shoulders back and stood as tall as he could. “King of Hell. You may bow.”

Father Murray stared at him, then looked to Dean for direction. 

“Ignore him,” Dean said.

“At your peril,” Crowley added in a menacing tone. The remaining color drained from Father Murray’s face. He took half a step back.

But Ruthie stepped toward Crowley, arms crossed. “Why are you here? Can you help us get Sam back or not?”

“Down, girl. I came to give you a status update.” He turned to look at Dean. “Whilst you’ve been handing Azar a powerful, probably permanent vessel, I’ve been being productive.”

Only Cas’s arm across Dean’s chest kept him from punching Crowley in the throat. Crowley smirked and went on. “I have a team working on a holding area around the Lake. They’re making progress. And I’ve worked out how to force him into the transport container. It’s a sort of mirrored exorcism. An old curse, ancient Persian. It sends a spirit into a vessel rather than out of one.”

“And the container?” Ruthie asked.

Crowley walked to the reception desk and hoisted the case onto it. They gathered around while he unfastened the clasp and opened the lid. Inside lay a heavy-looking cylinder, about a foot long. It was made of some dark metal, with a two-inch-thick lid at one end.

“Will it hold him?” Dean asked.

“It should,” Crowley said.

“What does that mean?” Cas asked. 

“It means I think it should, but I’m not certain. Without a vessel, his power will be limited. He shouldn’t be able to burn it. But it took me this long just to locate the spell for getting him inside. I’m not going to use it until I’m sure it will hold him. It probably needs warding.”

“You couldn’t find a way to send him straight back to Hell?” Ruthie asked.

Crowley’s chin jutted out. “No. I tried. There’s nothing.”

“How long before this thing’s warded?” Dean asked.

“Sorry. Mother still has my crystal ball.”

Dean raked a hand through his hair. “Well, we’re not waiting. We’re getting Sam back whether we can send Azar to Hell yet or not.”

Crowley spread his hands. “Be my guest.” He closed the case and clicked the fastener shut. 

“Do you know what Azar’s been doing?” Ruthie demanded, arms still crossed. 

Crowley blinked at her, then glanced at Dean. “Is she talking to me?”

Ruthie continued. “Do you know why he came here?”

Crowley looked back at her. “It’s been brought to my attention, yes. Earlier today he summoned a crossroads demon to deliver several executed contracts.”

“So you know he’s here to gather souls. But do you know _how_ he’s getting them?”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “They sign, he signs, they seal it with a kiss. The usual.”

“No. He got one to sign when she was drunk. All the ones earlier today? He had a werewolf kidnap them, then made them choose between selling their souls or being murdered. Every one of them signed under duress, Crowley. Those contracts are invalid. You can’t honor them.”

He leaned back, eyebrows rising, and an amused smile spread across his face. He turned to Dean. “Is she…telling _me_ what I can and can’t do?”

“She’s got a point. I know you’re a soulless piece of crap, but you do have standards. I remember.” Dean hated to bring up his stint as a demon. Not pleasant memories.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Standards which you ignored, but now want me to uphold.”

Dean winced at the memory of killing a guy who’d sold his soul in exchange for having his wife murdered. Crowley had been pissed. He tried to shrug it off. “Yeah, well, I made a crappy demon. But you’re the king. Shouldn’t you set an example or something?”

“I do what I want. I’m the king.” Crowley grabbed his case off the desk. 

Ruthie stepped in front of him, her expression shifting. “You’re exactly right.” She unfolded her arms and softened her tone, turning it almost oily, like Crowley’s. “He defied you by coming here. Every day he stays here, he’s undermining your authority. He shouldn’t be rewarded for it. He shouldn’t get to keep a single one of those souls.”

“No, he shouldn’t,” Crowley mused, as though weighing the idea. “I agree. I’ll assign a minion to find some loophole, some fine print in the contracts that will allow me to appropriate them for the Crown. Asset forfeiture, I believe you’d call it.” He gave her an exaggerated smile. “Thank you very much for the suggestion.”

Her fists balled up at her sides; her tone turned as hard as Crowley’s heart. “It’s not right. Those people don’t belong in Hell and you know it.”

Crowley looked her up and down, then shot a sly look past her at Dean. “I _do_ like her. A wildcat, I’m betting.” He raised his case toward Dean. “You can tell me all about it over drinks soon. It’ll be just like old times.” He winked and vanished before Dean could get his hands around his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was National Pie Day, today is Dean Winchester's birthday: the universe was telling me to post a midweek chapter. Hopefully this was a good breather after the last couple. Have a great week, and I'll see you Saturday!


	14. Chapter 14

Azar paused in the narrow hallway, giving a smile and nod to two passing nurses, both of whom blushed. Having Sam Winchester as his vessel was already affording unforeseen benefits. Humans were more open to the message when the messenger was attractive. More easily enticed when the speaker was enticing. 

The werewolf had been wrong. Fear for one’s own life wasn’t always the most efficient motivator. For some, yes. But Felipe and Enrique had proved there was a more powerful tool of persuasion. Some cared much more for the lives of others than for their own. And those were the souls he craved: meaty, yet tender. Savory and sweet. He could almost smell the aromas that would fill his Lake as they stewed. Now Azar believed he had erred in saving Enrique for last. He’d hoped to break him, but in killing his family, he’d left the man with nothing to lose. He should have threatened the boy and the woman, perhaps burned one slowly. That might have swayed him. And what a trophy his soul would have been. Its loss grated at him.

But here, this morning, he’d begun to make up for it. This place was filled with desperate people. Not the bland, run-of-the-mill liars, thieves, and politicians who made up most of the Lake’s population. No, these were the salt of the earth. And salt was the indispensable seasoning for any feast. 

A father, his anxiety relieved, sat contentedly in the waiting room while his little girl underwent emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. She would survive it, thanks to Azar, and enjoy a normal life with her family—until she turned seventeen. Then her father would die horribly, mauled by some vicious animal. The man had decided his daughter's life was worth shortening his own. Worth surrendering his soul. Would the girl agree, Azar wondered, if she knew? 

No matter. The deal was done.

Tears dried on the cheeks of a recently distraught woman outside the Intensive Care Unit. Silent sobs no longer shook her body. She’d been a preschool teacher for three decades, the gentlest soul. The children adored her. She captured moths she found in her house and released them outside, unharmed. She hadn’t seen the elderly man with a cane start to cross the street as she turned. She’d broken his hip, femur, and three ribs, and fractured his skull. The swelling in his brain had been sure to kill him. Doctors had tried to relieve the intracranial pressure, but at his age…

She’d jumped at the opportunity to sacrifice herself, to assuage her guilt. Old Mr. McIntyre was resting comfortably now, surrounded by family, his doctors scratching their heads at his miraculous recovery. 

One of the nurses had been less salt of the earth, more empty calorie, sugary soft drink. But it had been so easy. In Sam Winchester, she’d seen a quick opportunity to avenge herself on a commitment-shy boyfriend, to make him jealous, spur him to decisive action. She sidled up to Sam in the cafeteria, knowing her boyfriend would arrive soon. She sat too close, laughed too loudly, making sure her significant other would see. Then Azar had offered a more direct solution to her problem. Sign here, miss, and he’ll propose within the week. What did she have to lose? Demons and Hell and supernatural transactions weren’t real, after all. 

Once the sparkling ring adorned her finger, she’d convince herself he’d been about to propose all along, and the tall stranger with the parchment had been a figment of her overactive imagination. She’d believe it for almost ten years, until she heard the howls of approaching hellhounds.

Azar smiled to himself and patted his leather bag. He lifted his borrowed hand and examined it. Still no blisters, no worse for wear, not even after last night’s experiment. This vessel was performing even better than he’d hoped.

He’d felt it, as soon as he took possession of Sam Winchester’s body. This one wasn’t cramped and brittle like the others. Here he could stretch, spread out, settle in. He was comfortable for the first time since leaving Hell. His power coiled like a serpent, patient and watchful. Confident that when he wished to strike, his aim would be true. Deadly.

He’d tested this theory at once. Leaving Enrique Macías senseless at his feet, he strode out of the barn without a glance at the werewolf’s corpse. The creature had served Azar’s purposes. Twenty paces from the barn, he turned. Far enough to protect his new vessel. He raised his arm, held his hand out toward the old building, focused his power. Released it. A torrent of molten flame shot forward, engulfing the wood. His fire roared like a living beast, consuming the popping boards, melting the glass bottles. He watched in rapture for the sixty seconds the fuel lasted. Then there was nothing left to burn. The flames shrank and died, leaving a blackened rectangle of ashes and embers among the waving soybeans.

A thrill of satisfaction rushed through his veins again at the memory. With this vessel, with his power channeled and secure, he would attain his goal with ease. Ten thousand souls all his own. Souls he sought, bargained for, and gleaned for himself. Souls whose shapes he knew. How his anticipation would build as the time to begin collecting them drew nearer. Ten years was as the blink of an eye to him. At an average of three souls per day added to his harvest, in ten years’ time he would return to the Lake, ready and waiting to welcome them home. 

He strolled out of the hospital, supremely pleased with himself and his acquisitions for the day. A single irritation pricked at his otherwise high spirits—but even it was cause for gratification. Deep in Azar’s mind, buried with no hope of escape, Sam Winchester’s consciousness seethed. He agonized at the destruction of Enrique Macías in the barn, and railed against each deal Azar struck. He struggled to eject Azar from his body, with as much effect as an ant struggling to cast off a booted foot. Azar paused in the shade of a tree to enjoy his host’s distress. 

Yes, he had learned much about these brothers since inhabiting Sam. Had fraternal bonds ever been forged so tightly? Had two men ever risked or accomplished so much in the selfless pursuit of securing this world for humanity? Their flaws were myriad; it was true, but flaws merely gave their souls more depth, richer texture. 

And the woman, Ruthie Trujillo. She had intrigued him in the barn, and now her allure had grown. Sam Winchester thought of her as a sister; he was devoted to her. Dean Winchester loved her with an imprudent passion, one that might serve Azar’s purposes. 

And she herself? Through Sam’s memories he had seen all she’d endured, the betrayals, the heartache. He’d seen all she’d forgiven, and he marveled. Her devotion to Sam differed from her love for Dean in nature, but not intensity. Her ardor for the elder brother equalled his in imprudence—perhaps more so. 

He coveted their souls. How he yearned to possess them. Prizes to savor for eternity.

He suspected that, like Señor Macías, they would be difficult prizes to win. Dean Winchester had been to Hell once before. He had endured Alastair’s tender ministrations for the equivalent of decades. Coercing him to return would require application of the most extreme leverage. Ruthie would be the same. She had learned much from the Winchesters. She knew her soul was precious beyond price. She knew Hell was agony beyond endurance. 

Though it pained him, he admitted he would likely not win them both. He would be forced to sacrifice one to obtain the other. Still, one such soul… He smiled with Sam’s mouth, basking in Sam’s unheard torment.

And as for Sam himself? After ten years as Azar’s vessel, watching his hand sign ten thousand contracts, feeling his lips damning ten thousand souls with a kiss—including his brother’s or his adopted sister’s—the demon doubted his soul would any longer be worth the trouble. Unfortunate, but a tradeoff Azar was content to make.

He breathed deep of the humid air, so unlike the scorching fumes he was accustomed to. He looked forward to his triumphant homecoming. Since arriving here in this sparsely populated corner of the world, he’d been determined to move somewhere with more humans, to more quickly and easily reach his goal. His unforeseen trouble with vessels had slowed him down. He still intended to relocate, but was no longer in a rush. Here, somewhere nearby, were two of the most desirable souls he was likely to encounter, regardless of how long he sojourned on the earth. He would stay until he had acquired one or both of them.

He continued down the pavement on his long, borrowed legs, enjoying his larger physical presence. Where ought he go next? It was evening, and the nurse had told him visiting hours were over. He had met his daily quota, but he did not wish to stop. He could return to the hospital tomorrow, and the next day if he wished. Perhaps he should seek out a large hospital in whichever city he traveled to once he was finished here. The places were veritable buffets. Cornucopias of vulnerable souls. 

Now he turned his steps toward the local establishment serving alcohol. Perhaps he would add another soul or two to his collection over the course of the evening. 

He had traveled only three blocks down the little street when static crackled from his posterior. A familiar, tinny voice said, “Daisy, this is Bo, you copy?” Azar paused alongside the road and pulled the radio from his belt. 

A female voice replied. “This is Daisy. I copy.”

Azar’s lips twisted in amusement. He knew their voices. And even if he had not recognized them, he had seen their foolish aliases in Sam’s mind. 

“Meet me at the old house on County Road 4. We need to talk. Over.” Dean sounded tense.

“The abandoned one?”

“Yeah.” A brief pause. “I don’t want anybody listening in. Over.”

“What time? Over.”

“Soon as you can get there. Over and out.”

Azar returned the radio to his belt. The bar could wait. He caressed the soft leather bag once more and whistled as his long strides carried him through the outskirts of town, toward the abandoned farmhouse. 

As he passed yet another cornfield, he laid a hand over Sam’s upper chest, where the tattoo had been. His palm came away wet. Azar frowned and wiped it on his pant leg. He tugged the shirt away from the skin to peer down at it. Charred skin ringed the burn: a wet mess of exposed red and white tissue. Thick yellow pus oozed from the deeper spots. Some of the crisp black border was tinged with green, and spidery streaks of red snaked out through the unburned skin surrounding it. The wound must have festered throughout the day without his noticing. An unpleasant odor wafted from the area. Azar wrinkled his nose. What had the woman said? Infection? She hadn’t mentioned it would have a hideous smell. 

The damage to his vessel did not concern him. Let the infection spread. He was wearing Sam Winchester like a cloak. He could withstand a bullet through the heart and keep walking as long as he liked. This stench, though… Perhaps he would locate a flower to pin to his shirt. 

Then again, Ruthie had seemed genuinely concerned about Sam suffering an infection. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage. Perhaps she would be willing to bargain if he offered to give Sam’s body medical attention. 

He would find out soon enough. A lone house appeared on the horizon, silhouetted against a low, orange sun. Azar quickened his pace. He had left the town behind a quarter of an hour ago. Dean Winchester had indeed chosen a place where he would not have been overheard, had Azar not intercepted their communication. He chuckled. These humans. Their souls might be brilliant, but their intellects were not. 

He approached the overgrown lot, taking in his surroundings. A long black vehicle sat on the weed-choked gravel drive. Grass, gone to seed, grew two feet high in the yard. Plywood covered every window. The front door had been boarded over with two-by-fours, but now two of the boards had been ripped off and tossed aside on the slanted front porch. An eight-foot section of gutter hung cockeyed from the roofline, guiding any rainfall directly onto a rotting porch swing, whose suspending chains had long since torn free of the porch ceiling. Beside the door stood an ancient tool chest, nearly as tall as Sam Winchester. 

Azar climbed the steps, anticipation mounting. His power gathered and coiled, eager to be unleashed. He pushed open the unresisting door; it creaked as it swung inward. He stepped inside, into almost cavelike darkness. He left the door open to let in some light. Dank, musty air assaulted his nostrils. Another scent as well, one familiar to him: sulfur. The rotten-egg odor greeted him like an old friend. He inhaled deeply and took another step. A narrow staircase was visible just to his right. He paused and listened for voices, but heard nothing besides a faint hissing. 

He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. What weak light there was came from the staircase and the open door behind him. Azar could soon make out a worn, woven rug on the floor beneath his feet, and a dilapidated sofa along the wall. Ahead of him, a doorway led into another small room. That seemed to be all there was to the first floor. Had Dean and Ruthie heard his approach? Were they cowering somewhere upstairs, hoping to escape his notice? The thought gave him pleasure. He turned toward the stairs, but stopped at once as heavy footfalls descended toward him. A pair of brown boots, then denim jeans, then a blue plaid shirt appeared. They belonged to Dean Winchester. Ruthie Trujillo followed him down the stairs. 

They did not look surprised to see him.

“We meet again,” Azar said.

“Yeah, that was the idea,” Dean replied. They came to stand before him, in the center of the room.

Azar examined their faces. Taut, determined, with a hint of anxiety. He laughed aloud. “You are going to try to retrieve Sam.”

“Close,” Dean said. “Just two words off.”

Azar spread his hands. “How do you plan to succeed? I am unwilling to surrender him, you see. This vessel is exceptional. Better than I had hoped.”

“I was counting on it.” 

“Yet you have come here—led me here, I see now—in an attempt to take from me what I will not give. Do you think this was wise?”

“Can you smell that?” Dean asked.

Azar tilted his head to one side, considering whether to give this impudent man a lesson in humility. He decided it could wait. “Yes. It smells like home.”

Dean’s nose wrinkled. “Might wanna clean every once in a while.”

“It’s propane,” Ruthie said. She gestured to the four corners of the room. 

Azar’s eyes flitted after her pointing finger, noting four identical white tanks on the floor. They were the source of the hissing sound.

“Highly flammable,” Dean said. “One spark, and—” he held up both fists and opened them suddenly, fingers spread wide, while he imitated the sound of an explosion.

Azar stayed quiet, weighing his options. He had not predicted this. 

“So, if you want the chance of ever getting your favorite vessel back after today, you won’t be using any fire here,” Ruthie said.

“I could annihilate all three of you right now.”

“You could,” Dean said. “But you won’t. You got the hots for Sam; you already said it. So you’ll keep him safe. You’ll slum around in some other poor bastard until you get another shot at Sam.”

Azar eyed the two of them. “You bluff. This gas is harmless. You would not take such a risk.”

Dean did not flinch. He looked Azar straight in the eye. “Try me.”

Ruthie stood behind him, mirroring his determined stance. 

Azar knew at once that this was no bluff. Had he not seen into Sam’s mind? These two would sacrifice everything for him. A fact he could use to his advantage once his full power was no longer hobbled.

There was no purpose in staying here, with his own power weaponized against him. No reason to risk his vessel. Without another word, he turned to leave. 

“Cas!” Dean yelled.

The door slammed shut. A loud scraping noise sounded from the front porch. Azar strode to the door and tore it open. Something dark and solid blocked his exit—the huge tool chest. He shoved it. It would not budge. 

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

Azar whipped around with a snarl. “You dare to give _me_ orders?”

Dean did not pause. “Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii—”

With one swipe of his arm, Azar threw him against the wall over the sofa. With Sam’s hand outstretched, he held him there, windpipe securely closed off. Dean glared at him in the dim light while his face reddened.

“Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica...”Ruthie’s voice rang out to take Dean’s place. 

Azar’s essence lurched inside his vessel, yanked like a dog on a leash. His fury flared; he nearly lost control and immolated her where she stood. No. He must be patient. He would not lose this vessel, nor the opportunity to take her soul.

“Ergo draco maledicte—”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand, hurling her to the wall opposite Dean. Arms outstretched, he held them fast. With a squeezing motion, he clamped down on their airways like a vise. He enjoyed the way their eyes began to bulge as their brains screamed for oxygen. “You thought to outwit the Eternal One? Fools.”

Through purpling lips, Dean Winchester gave him a sneer of pure defiance.

“Ut ecclesiam tua secura,” an unfamiliar electronic voice chanted from where Azar’s prisoners hung—and from Sam’s radio, clipped to Azar’s belt. 

“No!” He ripped it free and twisted the power dial off. 

“Tibi facias libertate servire…” The voice still had two outlets.

Azar’s spirit reeled, struggling against the invisible lasso drawing him forth. He howled and rushed to Ruthie, searching her waist, her back, her pockets, for the cursed radio. 

“Te rogamus, audi nos!”

Azar erupted from Sam Winchester’s body, forcibly ejected by the unseen speaker. Incorporeal once more, he raged up the stairway and escaped through a hole in the roof. Spotting a man with a radio beside the black car, he dived at him, but was thwarted. The priest was warded against him. Without physical form, Azar could neither locate nor destroy the warding sigil. A shout for help rang from inside the house. On the porch, another man began shoving the huge tool bench aside, clearing the doorway. Azar surged at him, but stopped short, inches away. What was this? He was no man at all, not even human. Instinctively, Azar recoiled. _Angel_. 

Without a vessel, his roar of frustration was voiceless, heard only within his own being. The werewolf had warned him not to underestimate this opponent. He ought to have listened. 

He twisted in the air and sped off over the cornfields, back toward Jackson, toward temporary vessels to utilize until he reclaimed Sam Winchester. And then... Oh, yes. And then Dean Winchester and Ruthie Trujillo would suffer. He would demonstrate how weak and frail they were in comparison, how foolish they were to have challenged the Eternal One, the Ancient Flame. He would take either their lives or their souls. 

Preferably both.


	15. Chapter 15

Sam collapsed onto the dirty rug, feeling like he’d just vomited up his guts. Heavy thuds on either side of the room told him Dean and Ruthie had slid down the walls and landed on the floor, too. They coughed and choked before gasping for breath. He pulled in deep breaths of rotten, dusty air himself, just to feel in control of his lungs again. It smelled awful. He wheezed and clutched his stomach, bracing to vomit for real. His whole body ached; he felt like he had the worst flu of his life. But Azar was gone. Thank God. 

Dean dropped to his knees beside him. “Hey, Sammy, you okay?”

Sam could only groan in response.

Ruthie lifted his head and slipped a pendant around his neck. Sam coughed again; the air burned his throat. His chest was on fire. Ruthie rolled him onto his back and pulled his shirt aside. Her face went white. “Cas, get us out of here!”

Something heavy scraped along the porch behind the door. 

“Help me get him up,” Ruthie said. “He can’t breathe; the propane is thick down here.”

Sam groaned again as they each took one of his arms and hauled him to his feet; his skin was burning and his chest felt like a rabid opossum was gnawing at it. They turned him around and helped him toward the doorway, where Cas stood waiting. 

Sam tried to help ease some of his weight off Ruthie and Dean, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His feet stumbled down the rickety porch steps. 

“Cas, help; he’s too heavy for me,” Ruthie said.

Cas took her place, and together, he and Dean got Sam over to the back door of the car. Sam ducked his head and pitched forward into the back seat. Someone pulled him into a sitting position. Far away, Baby’s engine rumbled to life. The car felt like it was spinning. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he moaned again. Someone in the passenger seat turned to look at him with a worried expression. Was that Father Murray? Sam blinked, and the priest came into focus for a second.

“Will he be alright?” Father Murray asked.

Good question, Sam thought, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words. His head flopped back; his neck was too weak to hold it up anymore. He felt so hot. So tired. Someone ripped his shirt open. Probably Ruthie. “Septicemia.” Her voice was hoarse; she sounded terrified. “Cas…?” 

Cas didn’t reply. Three cool fingertips touched Sam’s forehead. Tingling energy flooded through him, pooling at the open wound in his chest. A golden-white glow lit up the insides of Sam’s eyelids. The energy buzzed and vibrated like a hundred of Ruthie’s needles working in fast-forward, warm and gentle, knitting him back together. 

Cas lifted his hand and the light faded; the tingling stopped. Sam caught his breath. The blazing heat was gone; the pain had vanished. He raised his head and peered down, running his fingers over the place Azar had burned. Smooth skin, no trace of scarring. His tattoo was gone, but otherwise, he looked good as new. A grateful sigh escaped. “Thanks, Cas.”

Then Ruthie was in Sam’s face, practically on his lap, probing his healed skin with her fingers, examining every inch. Her eyes grew wider as she searched. She stuck her nose down close to his chest and sniffed him, then put her palm to his forehead and two fingers to the side of his throat. “Do you feel hot? Sick? Any chills?”

“I feel fine now. Really.”

She monitored his pulse for another couple seconds. Her eyes welled up and she let out a shaky breath. She threw herself onto him, arms wrapped tight around his neck, shaking. He held her, trying not to feel embarrassed while Cas and Father Murray watched. Dean glanced at him in the rearview, looking relieved.

After a few moments, she let him go and wiped her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. 

He rubbed his palm over the phantom wound, still hardly believing the deep burn was gone. “Yeah. I’m good.”

She leaned farther across him and pulled Cas into a python hug. “Thank you.” 

“But how are you?” Sam asked. The last time he’d seen her, Azar had burned her with the pendant. He tensed up just thinking about it. 

“I’m fine,” she said, settling herself back in her own seat while soybeans blurred past the window. “Cas fixed me up, too.” She pulled aside her shirt to show him the raised white scar tissue of a brand in the exact shape of the anti-possession pendant. “Pretty badass, huh?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, tracing a finger over the bumpy sunburst pattern just below her collarbone. Leave it to Ruthie to ask Cas to leave the scar. Always practical. “Maybe I should get one of these instead of another tattoo.”

She winced. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He glanced up at her in surprise. 

She spoke in a low voice. “I don’t even want to think about you getting burned again. Or any of us. Ever.”

He squeezed her hand. “Okay. Ink it is.”

“Anything we ought to know about Azar’s plans?” Dean asked, glancing in the rearview again as he sped along the road.

“Wait a second,” Sam said. “Aren’t we going to talk about how you two just almost got yourselves blown up?”

Ruthie and Dean exchanged a look in the mirror. “No,” Dean answered. 

“I mean, I appreciate you getting him out of me. Really. But did it have to be a kamikaze mission?”

“We’re all still here, aren’t we?” Dean said.

He had a point. 

Sam looked at the priest. “So that was you on the radio?”

Father Murray turned to face Sam with an expression of modest pride. “Yes. I assume it worked according to plan?”

Sam nodded. “He was surprised. And really angry.” 

“What’s he going to do next?” Ruthie asked Sam.

Sam concentrated, calling back the unpleasant awareness of Azar’s thoughts inside his mind. “He’ll go find a vessel first. And then…well, he’s here to collect souls. Good souls, the kind he likes.”

“What kind are those?” Dean asked.

Sam wasn’t sure how to explain it. “Not people who’d normally go to Hell. Good people, with strong values. People really full of life. He thinks of them as…meatier.”

Dean frowned; Ruthie looked sick to her stomach. Father Murray turned around to look at him again. “Meaty? He thinks of souls as food?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Sam was fully aware of how twisted this all sounded. He tried be even more specific, to put a finger on Azar’s ideal target. “He goes after people with something to live for, or someone to live for. He seems really drawn to selflessness, self-sacrifice. If he can get a person to sacrifice themselves for someone else, that’s his favorite.” Sam winced at the memories from earlier that day. “He hunted at the hospital today. He’s preying on people who are desperate for their loved ones to live.”

“Evil bastard,” Dean muttered.

Sam recalled another detail. “He has a quota. He’s going to collect ten thousand souls.”

Baby rumbled past silent cornfields in the dusk. No one spoke as that number hung in the air. Finally Dean said, “Like hell he is.”

“But I think he might stop, at least for a while.” Sam told them. “I’m pretty sure he’ll be obsessed with getting me back.”

“That’s good then, isn’t it?” Father Murray said, then shrank back from the look Dean gave him. “I mean, for the people of the county. Not necessarily for Sam.” His neck flushed pink.

“We figured he’d want to get you back right away,” Ruthie said to Sam with a sardonic half smile. “He’s your number one fan.”

“We need to change motels,” Sam said. “He’ll know where our room is now.” A wave of queasiness washed through his stomach, knowing Azar had been in his head, reading his thoughts, seeing everything.

“You’re more than welcome to stay with me,” Father Murray said. “My house is small, but we could make do.”

“That’s nice of you,” Sam said. “But Azar knows about you. We’ll just have to get a different motel.”

“If Crowley would hustle up with that container, we could be ready for him whenever he comes for you,” Dean said.

“He doesn’t just want me,” Sam said. “He wants revenge on you two.”

Dean’s eyes popped back up to the mirror. 

“Us?” Ruthie asked, gesturing at herself and Dean.

Sam nodded. “He wants your souls. He’s almost as obsessed with getting them as he is with getting me back.”

Dean’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “He’s gonna be disappointed.”

Ruthie sat back in her seat and let out a shallow breath. Then she gave her head a little shake and took Sam’s hand in both of hers. “All that matters right now is that you’re okay, and he’s gone. We’ll figure out the rest.”

“Thanks, Ruthie.” He put an arm around her and pulled her into his side. “Thank you all.”

Father Murray gave him a warm smile. Cas nodded. Dean held his gaze in the rearview, with a look that told Sam he had more to say, but not here. Not now. 

Dean dropped Father Murray off at his little ranch house in town. The priest leaned in the window after he closed the door. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you all here,” he said. “Thank you for allowing me to be of assistance. Shall we talk again soon? We have more work to do, yes?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “In the morning.”

Father Murray nodded and waved goodnight.

Later, after they’d settled into their new room, Dean handed Sam a shot of whisky in a cheap motel glass and sat next to him on the lumpy sofa.

“Think Cas will hear anything?” Sam asked. Since he didn’t need things like food or sleep, Cas had gone to the police station to listen for any signs that Azar had taken a new vessel.

Dean shrugged. “If we’re lucky.” He glanced across the room at the second bed, where Ruthie had been asleep for half an hour. “She didn’t sleep at all last night. She was freaking out.”

Sam took a sip of whisky and let it burn down his throat. “Can’t blame her. I would’ve been too, if I were in her place.”

They sat in silence for a minute. “She was so pissed at me,” Dean said.

Sam looked up from his glass in surprise. “Why?”

“For choosing her instead of you.”

“But he would have killed her. Or tortured her to get her soul. He wants me alive.”

“I know. I told her. She didn’t care.” Dean swirled the whisky around in his glass. “She said you were more important than her.”

Sam frowned and looked across the room at her, curled up under the blanket, lips parted, sleeping peacefully. “Why would she think that?”

Dean shook his head. They both watched her for another quiet minute. “Back at the bunker, while you were gone, she told me she didn’t want to come between us.”

“She’s not.”

“I know.” Dean’s gaze rested on her, watchful and pensive. He didn’t seem to have any more to say. Her steady breathing was the only sound in the little room. 

Sam leaned back, resting his head against the wall. “The other day, before we got to the barn, she said something funny. She called you her boyfriend, but then said that word didn’t sound right.”

Dean glanced over at him, eyebrows raised.

“She said she felt too old for it,” Sam went on. “And that you two had been through so much that ‘boyfriend’ didn’t cover it.”

Dean’s eyes jumped back to Ruthie. “Huh.” He watched her again, longer this time. Sam could almost see the gears turning in Dean’s head. He stayed quiet so long, Sam figured the conversation was over, but then Dean blurted, “Hey, I was thinking…” He trailed off, tapping his fist on his knee. Then he raised his glass and finished off his drink in a gulp. He got up from the couch, setting his empty glass on the counter.

“Thinking what?”

“Nothing. I’m going out. You need anything?”

Sam stared at his brother. “Going out where? Why?”

Dean’s eyes flicked to Ruthie again. “I’m gonna get her a—flannel.”

Sam blinked. “A flannel?”

“Yeah. She said she wanted one, remember?”

“Right now? Dean, nothing’s open.”

“Don’t worry about it. You good here?”

Sam kept staring. “What is going on?” 

“Nothing. I’m good, Sam.”

That was the weirdest part about it. Besides acting totally erratic, he seemed calm and upbeat. Determined, as if this flannel were some important mission. “Well, at least take your radio.”

Dean patted his butt where the radio was clipped. He grabbed his keys off the table and locked the door behind him. 

Sam sat for a minute after he left, wondering what the hell had gotten into him. Eventually, he gave up. He pulled off his shirt, and touched his healed skin once more. Ruthie was right: having an angel as your best friend was pretty sweet. He tossed his shirt and pants into the corner, but left on his pendant as he crawled into bed. 

The smell of strong coffee woke him. He squinted toward the little counter outside the bathroom where the miniature coffee maker sat. Ruthie stood there with damp hair, pouring a mug. “Hey,” he croaked through the morning frog in his throat. 

“Hey yourself,” she said, and poured a second mug. She carried them over and perched on the edge of his bed. 

He sat up and took the mug she held out. “Thanks.” He took a long sip, then glanced around the room. “Where’s Dean?”

She shrugged. “He was gone when I got up. I figured he went to meet Cas. Probably wanted us both to rest.”

“He left last night,” Sam said, alarm bells clanging in his head. “I never heard him come back. Did you?”

Ruthie shot up from the bed, sloshing coffee on the already stained carpet. “He’s been gone all night?”

Sam set his mug on the bedside table and grabbed his radio. “Bo, come in.”

They waited in tense silence, staring at the radio. Sam’s heart thudded beneath his new skin. 

The radio crackled. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Ruthie sank down onto the bed; Sam slumped back against the wall. “Are you okay?”

“All good.”

Ruthie snatched the radio out of his hand. “Where have you _been?_ ”

A short pause. “Aw, Daisy, you sound so cute when you’re mad.”

Her eyes blazed. She pinched her lips shut and handed the radio back to Sam. 

“Relax,” Dean’s voice told them. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Dean—”

“Over and out.”

Sam let out a huff and plunked the radio back onto the side table. 

“He’s _your_ brother,” Ruthie said.

“You chose him,” Sam reminded her. 

“What the hell is he doing?” Ruthie asked.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.” He really didn’t. No way was he out all night buying a stupid flannel. 

She took a swig of coffee. “I guess this is actually good timing. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Do you need anything first? Want to get dressed or eat something? I got some donuts.” She threw a dirty look at a white paperboard box beside the coffee maker. “They’re terrible.”

“No, I’m good.” He waited while she turned the mug in her hands, staring down into it as though searching it for a way to begin. 

Finally, she took a breath and looked up at him. “I need you to promise me something.”

He waited, but she sat there waiting, too. As though she wanted him to agree before he found out what he was agreeing to. He sensed a trap. “Promise you what?”

She studied him for another couple seconds before answering. “I need to know that neither one of you is going to risk your life for me.”

Sam sat there, stunned. She might as well have pulled out a skillet and whacked him over the head. “Ruthie, what… Where is this coming from?”

Her mouth tightened; she gripped her mug harder. “He chose me instead of you. At the barn. He shouldn’t have. He should always choose you. You should always choose each other.”

Sam stared at her, questions and objections racing through his mind. “Dean made the right call. Azar wanted me alive. He might have killed you.”

Her stubborn little chin stuck out. “We didn’t know for sure you could hold him. You might have burned up like the others. And if we’d exorcised him even one day later, that infection would have killed you.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the Life. There aren’t any guarantees. We just do the best we can.”

She turned, pulling one knee up on the bed so they were face to face. “Yes. And the best you can do _is_ the best. That’s the point. You and Dean are the best hunters in the world.” He tried to interrupt, but she kept going. “How many monsters have you killed?” she demanded. “How many demons? How many people have you saved?”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t know, because there are too many to count. You two have literally saved countless lives.”

“Ruthie, where are you going with this?” He thought he knew, and he didn’t like it.

“You and Dean are more important than I am.” He opened his mouth to contradict her, but she held up a hand. “I know. You’re going to say you’re not, that your lives aren’t worth more than anybody else’s. Maybe in a moral sense, that’s true. But in the practical sense? Here in the real world where people’s lives and even souls are in danger? You and Dean _are_ more important. You’re the most important.”

He’d been right. He didn’t like this at all. He folded his arms over his chest. “What are you saying? What are you asking me to promise here, specifically?”

“I don’t want either of you dying for me.” Her dark eyes burned with some preternatural conviction.

It sent a chill through him despite the muggy heat of the room. He uncrossed his arms and leaned toward her. “Ruthie, is there something I need to know? Something you’re not telling me?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not having any premonitions, if that’s what you mean. And I don’t have a death wish. I just—” She broke off, and reached out to set her mug on the side table. She rubbed both hands over her legs and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I know this is a dangerous job. And I know you guys can handle yourselves. But I also know there are lots of things out there, including a specific demon, who would love to use me as bait to get to you and Dean. You know it, too.” She paused and fixed him with a solemn stare. “I need to know that if that ever happens, you won’t take the bait.”

He stared back at her. “Let me get this straight: if some demon or monster or whatever captures you, we’re supposed to just give up and leave you to die?”

“If it’s got the upper hand, then yes. If coming to get me puts either of you in serious danger of dying, then yes.”

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. “We risk our lives all the time. It’s part of the job; you know that. We do it for total strangers. I’m sorry, but we’re not going to stop. Definitely not if you’re in trouble.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon me at the first sign of danger. But if it’s something you’re not sure you can beat, or if it wants to trade me for one of you—”

“We’ll beat it or die trying, Ruthie.”

She flinched as though he’d slapped her. She blinked hard; her hands curled up tight in her lap. She took one shaky breath, then another. Sam wanted to hug her, but he restrained himself. He was afraid if he hugged her she’d start crying, and if she started crying, he might promise her anything. Finally, she spoke in a voice as shaky as her breaths. “You don’t understand. If anything happened to you or Dean—” Her eyes dropped away from his, down to her hands in her lap. She swallowed hard. “If I had to wake up every day, knowing one of you was gone because of me?” Her face contorted. “I couldn’t do it,” she whispered. She shook her head slowly and pulled in a ragged breath. “If my life ever has to come at the cost of one of yours, I don’t want it.” She looked up at him, and he almost shrank back from the intensity in her expression. “Do you understand? I _don’t want it._ ”

He sat there, paralyzed, her words ringing in his ears, her gaze pinning him in place. He did understand. Of course he understood. The only response he could think of came out in a disbelieving voice. “Ruthie. What makes you think we feel _any_ differently about you?”

Her face crumpled; she lurched up off the bed and turned her back to him. She stood there, head bowed, breathing hard. He couldn’t stand it. For the second time, he fought an inner battle over going to hug her. He’d given in and was about to go to her when she lifted her head and turned to face him, shoulders squared, her composure recovered. “That’s too bad for you. The cross you have to bear for being the world’s best hunters. You have to promise me, Sam. You won’t get yourself killed for me. And you won’t let Dean, either, whether he likes it or not.”

“Oh, is that all?” Sam scoffed, his compassion forgotten for the moment. “That’ll go over really well. Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

“Because he’s Dean. He’ll never agree to this.”

Sam threw his hands up. “So why do I have to?”

A charged beat of silence. Her lashes fluttered; her lips quivered. “Because I want to stay,” she whispered. 

Now it was Sam’s turn to flinch. Was she threatening to leave? Again? Dean had said she’d stayed up all night, freaking out, worrying for Sam. He’d heard her begging Dean to save Sam instead of her.

“I want to stay with you and—” She broke off with a strangled sound. “And Dean. More than anything. But I can’t if I’m a liability to you. I just can’t.”

Sam felt himself deflating. She was handing him an ultimatum. He could either make a promise that went against everything he believed in, or else say goodbye—and then explain to Dean why the woman he loved had left. 

She must have sensed his weakness. She came forward, sat right in front of him, took his hands in her cool ones. Bored into him with that fiery intensity. “Please, Sam. Please promise me.” Her voice cracked.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. But what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t let her leave. “Okay. Okay. I promise.”

She leaned in and hugged him hard. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she sniffled and straightened up. “This deal applies to Dean, too,” she said. “I’m counting on you.”

Good grief. Did she think he was a miracle worker? “How do you expect me to keep Dean from going to help you if you’re in trouble?”

“You’re bigger than he is. Knock him out. Tie him up. Throw him in the trunk and leave town.”

Easy for her to say. Sam shook his head. He didn’t like this at all. An uneasy feeling slithered around in his stomach. “How about you just stay safe, so this whole conversation is never relevant?”

She finally gave him a wan little smile. “I’ll do my best. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular reason for this Monday update. Guess I'm just excited to finish telling this story. I may update more frequently from here on out, if it's okay with y'all. 
> 
> Relieved for Sam? Suspicious of Dean? Concerned about Ruthie? Tell me all about it! I can't wait to hear your thoughts.


	16. Chapter 16

“Hey, donuts.” Dean grabbed a glazed one from the box by the coffee maker, pretending Sam and Ruthie weren’t staring holes into his back. He took a big bite. Stale, dry bread crumbled in his mouth. He turned around, making a disgusted face. “Thiff iv terrible.”

Ruthie stood by the bed, arms crossed, stone-faced. “So. What were you up to? All night long?”

He pointed at the donut. “I’m eating.” He crammed in another bite and forced himself to chew. 

She raised an eyebrow and waited. 

He couldn’t do it. The donut was too gross. He leaned over the little plastic trash can and spat out his mouthful. “Who sold you this crap? I’m gonna go kick their ass.”

Still no response. She was impersonating a statue or something, and x-raying him with her eyes.

He decided to try a different approach. He walked right up to her, put his arms around her, clasped his hands over her lower back. Pulled her in close. “Hey. Don’t you trust me?”

She didn’t uncross her arms. “You smell like smoke and beer.”

He looked over at Sam, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, ignoring his laptop and watching them. “She’s like a bloodhound,” Dean told him. He faced Ruthie again. “You got me. I went to Donny’s bar and played pool all night.”

She eyed him, weighing his words. Her x-ray stare morphed into a confused expression. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to?”

She shot a glance at Sam, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. 

Dean let her go and went to pour himself a cup of coffee. “It’s been a little stressful around here, even by our standards. I just needed to go blow off some steam.” When he turned around again, Sam was doing a pretty good impression of Ruthie’s x-ray stare. Oh, right. He’d told Sam he was going to buy her a flannel. Not one of his better lies. 

“What aren’t you telling us?” Ruthie asked.

“Listen, I know things went sideways in Boise, okay? I get why you want to grill me. But this time you have nothing to worry about. I swear.” 

He was telling the truth this time. She wavered, lips squeezing over to one side of her mouth.

“I need you to trust me,” he said.

Ruthie finally unfolded her arms. She came up to him, looked him in the eye. “Okay. I trust you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and bent her head to rest on his shoulder. “Just let us know next time, okay? Don’t make me worry about you.”

“I can do that.” He kissed her forehead. “Sam, you hear anything from Cas?”

“Not yet.”

Ruthie let him go and stepped back. “So what’s the plan?”

“Well, we’re sort of spinning our wheels until Crowley has that transport container ready,” Sam said. He tossed a hand at his laptop. “I can’t find anything on Azar at all, let alone how to kill him. Looks like we’ll have to settle for getting him back to Hell.”

“Sooner the better,” Dean said. “So, we track him. Keep him away from Sam.” He nodded toward his brother. “Cover you head to toe in anti-possession symbols.”

Sam chuckled, but Ruthie stood up straighter. “That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“We should cover Sam in warding symbols. Not tattoos, but permanent marker or something that will last until this is done. When Crowley gets back and we’re ready, we can let Azar think he’s got a shot at Sam. While he’s trying to figure out how to get past them all, we use Crowley’s spell and lock him up.”

“Wouldn’t just one hold him off long enough?” Sam asked.

“Maybe. But having loads of them would be different, unexpected. Might catch him off guard, trip him up. Anything to give us an edge, right? Plus, if anything goes wrong, it’ll be that much harder for him to possess you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean said. “We should all get them. Keep the bastard from using any of us to get to Sam. The priest, too.”

“Sure. Why not?” Sam said.

“We can go pick up some Sharpies in town,” Ruthie said.

“I’ll drive,” Dean told her. “Sam, you gonna stay here in case Cas turns up?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess so.”

Dean ran a hand over his right pocket. Still there.

Ruthie grabbed her radio and headed for the door. “Be safe,” she told Sam.

Dean followed her outside, then tossed her the keys. “Start her up. I forgot to ask Sam something.”

 

* * *

 

When he slid into the driver’s seat several minutes later, Ruthie asked, “Everything okay?”

“All good,” he said, careful not to look her in the eye. She’d see that he was hiding something. Just a little longer. He eased Baby onto the road.

Ruthie reached over and put her hand over his on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry for shouting at you the other day. About Sam.”  
He rubbed his thumb over her finger. “It’s okay. You were upset.”

She nodded. “I was. But I meant it.”

He darted a glance at her. “Meant what?”

“That Sam’s more important. Next time, I want you to choose him. I want you to choose him every time.”

This wasn’t how he’d intended this conversation to go. “I don’t have to choose between you.”

“You did at the barn. That could happen again, any number of ways.”

“Ruthie—”

“I’m just telling you what I want, Dean. Now you know.”

He glanced over at her again. Was she going to leave it at that? He hoped so. She wasn’t going to get him to agree with her. And he had something else to talk to her about. Soon, now. Just needed to kill a little more time. “Sam said you were great at the onion field. Said you’re getting good at tracking.”

“He exaggerates,” she said, waving away the compliment. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“I can teach you some more once this is over. After we’re back home.”

Her face softened into a smile. “I’d like that.”

He took the wheel with his left hand so he could hold her hand with his right. They rode that way for a while, comfortable and quiet.

“Hey, Main Street was that way,” Ruthie said, pointing behind them.

“I wanna show you something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

She side-eyed him for a couple seconds, then settled back into her seat. “I love you.”

His stomach did some sort of somersault. “Where did that come from?”

“I just wanted to say it again.” She looked down at their clasped hands. “At the barn, when I thought…” She trailed off, then gave her head a little shake. “I wished I had told you again. So I’m telling you again.” She looked up at him with her clear brandy eyes. “I love you.”

He kept his face calm, unlike his insides, which were tap dancing around. The straight, empty road made it safe to return her steady gaze. He looked deep into her eyes. “Could you be any cheesier right now?”

She threw her head back and laughed, long and loud. His favorite sound in the world. Audio apple pie. He wanted to make her laugh every day for the rest of their lives.

He was glad no one could read his mind right now. Talk about cheesy.

When her laughter finally died down, she wiped tears from her eyes. “It’s a good thing I know you so well,” she said. “Anyone else would just call you an asshole.”

“They wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Yes they would.” She looked out her window. “Where are we going?”

He pulled onto a dirt road beside a cornfield. They bumped along toward a thick woods at the end of the field. 

“You know, you could’ve just sent Sam for the Sharpies if you wanted us to have some alone time.” She gave him a mischievous smirk.

“This will be better.” His pulse picked up as he drove into the shade of the trees. The road narrowed into a grassy path. He slowed even more and followed the trail between big trees and low bushes.

Ruthie leaned out her window and breathed deeply. “I love the smell of the woods.”

So far, so good.

For five more minutes, they made their way deeper into the trees while Ruthie pointed out deer tracks and cardinals. Dean spotted the place up ahead. He eased Baby up a slight rise just off the trail, pointing her nose right through a curtain of weeping willow leaves. The vines swept over the windshield. He stopped as soon as the view cleared, and killed the engine. “Here we are.”

They sat overlooking a stream where it jumped and flowed over a tumble of big rocks, splashing and gurgling like a happy baby. The huge weeping willow tree grew right beside the water, wide branches spreading over each bank, creating a natural, circular tent around them. Soft green light filtered through the vines and shimmered in the rippling surface of the stream. 

Ruthie leaned forward, mouth open, gazing out through the windshield. “How did you find this place?”

“Asked around.” He slid a hand over his pocket again.

“Dean, it’s beautiful.” She took in the view a little longer. Then she turned to him with a naughty gleam in her eye. “You’re right. This is better.” She started to climb across the car into his lap.

“Hey, hang on a sec.”

She sat back in surprise. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“No.” He reconsidered. “Well, yeah, that too. But I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sat there, facing him, waiting.

His mouth went dry. “I’ve been thinking about some stuff you’ve said. About whatCrowley said about flannel.” Crap. That wasn’t how he’d meant to start. 

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

He forged ahead. “And the stuff you’ve said about Sam being more important, and how I need to think about what you want.”

She still looked confused. Damn it. He tried to start over. “I know you left behind a lot when you came to stay with us. You gave up everything. Your home, your career. Any chance at a normal life. I know I can’t give any of that back to you.”

She focused on him, listening intently.

“I wish I could give you everything. Trips to Fiji and nice clothes and high quality pie ingredients.” 

Her smile gave him the guts to keep going.

“I know I can’t give you those things. I can’t even promise to keep you safe.” He paused, caught off guard by the sudden tightness in his throat. He swallowed. “But there’s something I can give you.” He took a deep breath. “I can give you my name.”

Her smile froze, then faded into an open-mouthed stare as her eyes went wide.

“You said you wanted to be an honorary Winchester. I can do you one better. I know we just started…this.” He waved a hand back and forth between them. “But that’s just because I fought it for so long. Because I was an idiot. I know—I’ve known for a long time—that there’s nobody else. There’s never gonna be anybody else. I’m never gonna change my mind about you.”

She kept staring at him. Her chin gave a slight tremble. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little box. “I can give you this.” He held it out, opened the lid. 

Her gaze dropped to the open box. Her lips parted wider; her lashes fluttered. She put a hand to her throat. 

“Marry me,” he said. 

She pulled in a quick breath and raised glistening eyes to his.

He gave her his best charming smile. “This way I’ll know what to call you when I introduce you to people.”

“Dean, I—” She looked down at the box again. Reached out toward it with a trembling hand. She froze for a moment, her fingers an inch away. 

She closed the lid. 

Dean had taken gut punches plenty of times over the years. The worst kind were always the ones he didn’t see coming. This one knocked the wind right out of him. He stared at the little gray box. 

“I appreciate you trying to think about what I want. I do.” Her voice sounded tight and strained. “But…I’m not sure I want this.” 

He stared at her, half paralyzed, his head playing a glitchy video of how he’d pictured her reaction. Tears of joy, maybe a cute little squeal. Holding up her hand, fingers outstretched, while he slid the ring onto her finger. Throwing her arms around his neck, whispering _yes_ into his ear over and over. Making love there in the car, in this shady spot in the woods. The one he’d specially picked out for this occasion. 

“You don’t like the ring?” he asked, stupidly hoping that was the issue.

“No, it’s not that.” Her eyes dropped back to the box and lingered on it. “It’s perfect.” Her voice caught. She blinked several times, then raised her gaze to him again. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. 

He tried again. “I just thought… You were engaged. You know, before.” He gestured with the ring box. “I thought this was something you wanted.”

“I did,” she said quickly. 

A sharp pain knifed through his chest. She’d wanted it back then. With Mike. But not now. Not with him. 

The pain must have showed on his face. Her eyebrows squeezed up and together; she reached out and put her hand on his. “That’s not what I mean. I love you, Dean. You know I do. It’s just…” She trailed off again. She wouldn’t keep eye contact with him.

“It’s just what?”

She looked at him again and spoke in a rush. “You were up all night. You said yourself you’ve been stressed out. Are you sure you’re thinking clearly? Are you sure this is what _you_ want?”

“Yes.” 

She drew back, obviously surprised at the speed of his answer, the conviction in his voice. 

Yeah, he’d only thought about it for a couple days, but he’d always been a man of action. Once he made up his mind, he didn’t wait around. He had stayed up all night, hustling pool. He hadn’t quit until he’d earned enough to buy the ring he’d seen in the window of the antique shop they’d passed on their way into the Army surplus store. “I meant what I said. I’m never gonna change my mind about you. This is the one piece of normal life I can give you. One good, normal thing _I_ can have for once. I think I’ve earned it. I think _we’ve_ earned it.”

Her eyes glistened; the rippling stream reflected in them. Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I just…I need some more time.”

Well. So much for his big surprise. Feeling more than a little lost, he lowered the little gray box, tucked it back into his pocket. She watched it go, her shining eyes lingering on the spot where it had disappeared. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “It’s okay.” What was he supposed to say? He knew it was fast, knew this wasn’t how normal people did things, but he thought she’d be happy. Thought they’d already been through the worst crap any relationship could face, and beat it. He was supposed to be with her forever; he knew it. He’d thought she felt the same. 

Apparently he was wrong.

She peeked at him from a bowed head. He shifted into reverse, backed out onto the trail. Willow vines slid down Baby’s windshield, as if they were saying goodbye. He started the slow, bumpy trip back out of the woods. From the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him, looking anxious. He didn’t say anything. Eventually she sat back in her seat and looked ahead through the windshield. They rode in silence back to the motel. The little box felt all wrong in his pocket now. Like a brick. 

Father Murray stood at the door to their room, knocking, while Dean pulled up and parked. Ruthie turned to him, but he got out before she could say anything. 

“Hey, Padre.”

The priest turned to him. “Oh, hello Dean.”

The door opened, and Sam appeared. “Hey, Father Murray.” Then Sam spotted Dean. His face lit up in an expectant smile. Dean shook his head. Sam’s face fell; confused wrinkles filled his forehead. He shot a glance behind Dean, where Ruthie was getting out of the car. He looked back at Dean with one question on his face. Dean shook his head again. They couldn’t talk about it here, now. 

Father Murray spoke first. “So, Sam invited me to a sigil drawing party? I’m afraid I’m a terrible artist.”

“Oh, Sharpies,” Ruthie said. “I guess we forgot about them.” Her voice fell away. She looked down at the ground. 

After an awkward pause, Father Murray said, “Well, I’d be happy to run into town and—”

“I’ll go with you,” Ruthie said. 

“Alright.” The priest smiled and waved as he headed toward his car. 

Ruthie ducked her head and followed him without a word or backward glance.

Dean watched her go, wishing he could read her mind like she always read his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dons helmet, flak jacket* Okay, ready for your feedback now.


	17. Chapter 17

Father Murray chatted pleasantly behind the wheel, making small talk Ruthie mostly didn’t hear. Her thoughts were far away, back in the Impala, in a beautiful, private spot beneath a weeping willow tree. Dean’s hand held out a square gray box. Inside nestled a delicate gold ring, an antique: a circlet of intricate scrollwork woven outward from a little round cut diamond. She couldn’t have chosen anything more perfect. Her fingers had itched to touch it, to slide it on, to hold it up to the light. She’d thought her heart would burst when she realized what he was about to ask. Then felt it might never beat again when she knew what her answer had to be. 

The look on his face when she’d closed the box…

“Father Murray?” she interrupted. 

“Yes?”

“If I tell you something in confidence, you’re not allowed to tell anyone else, right? As a priest?”

He looked over at her, eyebrows raised. “You want to give me your confession?”

“Well, no. Maybe?” It wasn’t like she had sinned. 

Her stomach twisted. Maybe she had. Lying was a sin, wasn’t it?

“Are you Catholic?” he asked. 

“No.” She slumped in her seat. She had no one else to talk to. She couldn’t go to Sam this time.

“Ruthie.” Father Murray’s voice was gentle. “You may talk to me about anything. You have my word that I will keep our conversation confidential.”

One look at his steady blue eyes told her she could trust him. “Dean asked me to marry him,” she blurted.

Father Murray glanced at her before turning onto Main Street. “I would congratulate you, but you don’t sound happy.”

She looked down at her ringless hand. “I couldn’t say yes.” Her voice broke.

The priest stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue.

“It’s because of Sam,” she said. 

“You don’t think he’d approve?”

“No, not at all. I think he’d be thrilled.” A stab of pain jabbed at her chest. Dean was probably telling Sam right now. She pictured their expressions, Sam looking as disappointed and confused as Dean had been. 

Father Murray fell quiet again. She tried to find the right words to explain. 

“You don’t know everything they’ve done. Sam and Dean, they’ve saved the world. A few times over. I’m not exaggerating when I say they’re the two most important men alive.” She checked his expression for skepticism, but didn’t detect any. “They’ve been through so much together—things you wouldn’t believe. All before I came along. They’re a team. They need each other.”

Father Murray waited a few moments before speaking. “And you fear that if Dean marries you, it will…break up the team?”

“No, not exactly.” She knew this was going to be hard to explain. “When Azar had us trapped in the barn, me and Sam, he gave Dean a choice. He could save one of us. He chose me.”

Her throat squeezed so tight she had to focus in order to breathe. She’d told Father Murray that Sam and Dean needed each other, but that didn’t come close to covering it. Losing Sam would destroy Dean. Losing Dean would destroy Sam. 

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it the whole night while Azar possessed Sam. Couldn’t stop seeing the moment Dean decided to save her instead of his brother, couldn’t stop hearing Sam’s scream, feeling Dean’s hands pulling her away. And then, in the abandoned house, watching Azar smirk at her with Sam’s face, controlling Sam’s body, using Sam’s voice. She kept reliving how she’d opened Sam’s shirt only to feel fever heat radiating off him in waves, and seeing deadly red streaks shooting out from his infected wound. If Cas hadn’t been there with them…

She’d thought she knew what she was getting herself into with this life, that she could handle anything the boys could. But seeing Sam like that—and knowing Dean had chosen her instead—had shaken her to her core. It was why she had given Sam that ultimatum. Guilt curled up through her belly, remembering the look on his face when she’d told him she’d leave if he wouldn’t promise. Another lie. She was too selfish and too weak to leave them. Even if she should, even if it was better for them that way. But she’d been so desperate to make sure it would never happen again, she’d manipulated him. 

Maybe she _should_ be making a confession.

Father Murray guided the car into a parking space in front of the town’s little old convenience store. He killed the engine and sat in silent thought for a minute. “So, you worry that you have become more important to Dean than Sam is. You’re afraid that if you marry him, you’ll be confirming that you are now the most important person in his life.”

The priest had caught on quickly. “Yes,” she said. “And he’d feel justified choosing me over Sam next time, and every time after that. And choosing me over himself.”

“You mean in life or death situations.”

She nodded.

The priest nodded slowly in return. “But you love him?”

“Yes.”

“And you intend to stay with him?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t in question, no matter what she’d insinuated to Sam. 

“So, you’re trying to control the degree of his love for you. You’re holding him at arm’s length.”

His second sentence hit her like a slap across the face. “What? No, I’m just…” But she couldn’t come up with anything honest to say that wouldn’t confirm his accusation.

Just a couple weeks ago, that’s what Dean had been doing to her. It had hurt so much, she’d nearly left. 

Father Murray’s voice didn’t sound accusing. His tone was still calm and gentle. “You’re trying to protect him by pushing him away. Do you think that’s fair to him?”

Ruthie wrenched her door open and lurched out of the car. Hearing her own argument to Dean recited back to her by the priest—the déjà vu made her head spin. She pulled in a breath of fresh air, trying to get her throat to relax. Father Murray just didn’t understand. This was different. Sam and Dean were too important; the world needed them too much; they needed each other too much, for her to ever get in the way. She was doing the right thing. Even if it felt all wrong.

Father Murray stood on the other side of the car, watching her with concern. “Ruthie, are you alright? I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds.”

She realized her arms were wrapped around her sides, and her teeth were clamped tight. She closed her eyes. Took a slow breath. “No, it’s okay. I see how it could look like that to you.” She headed toward the entrance. “Let’s go find some Sharpies.”

 

* * *

 

Sam watched Ruthie climb into the passenger seat of Father Murray’s little red Hyundai. Dean walked past him, into the motel. Sam followed him inside, an uneasy feeling winging around in his stomach. Earlier that morning, when Dean had come back into the room to show him the ring and tell him he was going to propose to Ruthie, Sam had been surprised but thrilled. He still felt touched that Dean had wanted to get his blessing before asking her. Sure, it was fast, but that was Dean. And Ruthie was right: they’d already been through more together in the past year than most couples would face in a lifetime. 

He’d hoped that Dean’s proposal would prove to her that she was just as important to them as they were to her. 

He’d never considered she might say no. That she’d reject him.

Dean walked straight to the counter and poured himself a glass of whisky.

“What happened?” Sam asked.

“What do you think happened? She said no.” Dean downed the whisky in one gulp.

Sam winced. He suspected the promise she’d extracted from him that morning had something to do with her answer. “But did she say why?”

Dean shrugged. “Not really. Said she wasn’t sure she wanted it. Said she needed more time.”

Sam caught at that explanation. “Well, this is pretty fast. You two did just finally get together, what, a week ago?”

“Yeah.” Dean stared at the floor. 

An empty silence filled the room. Sam wished he could say something to make his brother feel better. He had a feeling that telling him about his own conversation with Ruthie would do the opposite. 

“Yeah,” Dean said again, running a hand through his hair. “I guess I jumped the gun. I just wanted to make her happy. I’ve put her through so much crap. I wanted to make it up to her.”

“You know that’s not how she is.”

“I know.” He stared at the floor again, arms crossed over his chest. “But I wanted it for me, too, you know? She’s _it_ for me, Sam. I thought…” His jaw worked for a few seconds, then he clamped it shut.

Sam crossed the room to him. “Dean. You’re it for her, too. You just caught her off guard, that’s all. Like she said, she just needs a little time.” He fervently hoped he was right.

Dean closed his eyes for a second and let out a tense breath. He opened them again, and looked at Sam. “Okay. You’re right.” He glanced across the room to where her bag lay on their bed. “I just want her to be happy.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, glad to see that Dean seemed to have accepted his explanation, at least for the moment. He hoped he’d get a chance to talk to Ruthie soon and get her to see reason.

 

* * *

 

Ruthie and Father Murray rode back to the motel in silence. She couldn’t get his words out of her head. She spent the drive telling herself over and over that he just didn’t get it. He didn’t really know her, or the boys. She was doing the right thing, for the right reasons.

Cas’s ugly station wagon was parked several doors down from their motel room. Sam and Dean both looked up at her when she walked in. She went to greet Cas so she wouldn’t have to face them yet. She hugged the angel and asked, “Any luck?”

Cas shook his head. “Whatever he’s doing, it’s not enough to attract attention.” A worried frown creased his face. “We have no idea where he is.”

Sam, sitting at the table, had turned his attention back to the X-acto knife in his hand. “There,” he said, tossing a thin square onto a little pile. 

Ruthie went over to see, still avoiding eye contact with Dean and the priest. She picked it up: a paperboard stencil cut from a cereal box, in the shape of the anti-possession symbol. “Nice, Sam.”

“Now it won’t matter that you’re not an artist, Father,” Sam said.

“Wonderful,” Father Murray said with a smile.

Ruthie tore open the multipack of markers and let them spill out on the table. “Okay then. Let’s do this.”

Cas didn’t need anti-possession symbols, of course. The rest of them worked on their own sigils, laying their stencils over easy-to-reach places: the tops of their feet, just above their knees, their thighs. Well, Father Murray didn’t go that high. He didn’t seem comfortable taking his pants off like the guys, so he just went as high as he could hike his pants leg up. Ruthie had an easier time in shorts. She sat at the table beside Cas, chatting with him, darting glances across the room at Dean. He seemed to be acting pretty normal. A little quiet, maybe.

When they’d each added at least three symbols to each leg, the guys and Father Murray took their shirts off. Sam positioned his stencil over the spot where his tattoo had been, and Father Murray followed his lead. Dean already had one there, of course. 

This was stupid, not talking to him. She couldn’t avoid him forever. She didn’t want to. “Here,” she said, walking over to him. “Let me help.” 

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her approach. He wasn’t wearing any mask. Wasn’t trying to hide anything from her. He’d absorbed her non-answer now. He’d left his expression unguarded. She saw the hurt, the confusion. They tore into her like shrapnel. But they were muted. He wasn’t in agony. He sat with his shoulders back, angled toward her, upright. He was hurt, but not crushed. He trusted her. 

He loved her.

For an instant, her resolution wavered. Why was she resisting him? Why was she fighting against her own desires?

Behind her, Sam’s laugh rang out, snapping her out of it. 

For Sam. For Dean. She wouldn’t come between them. She wouldn’t let Dean think he should ever sacrifice himself, or his brother, for her. No. It was better this way. 

She crawled behind him on the bed and lay her stencil over his right shoulder blade. “Hold still,” she said, and began the first line of the pentagram. She waited for Sam and Father Murray to fall back into conversation, then lowered her voice so only Dean could hear. “Are we okay?”

He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. “You tell me.”

She drew the marker tip along another line of the five-pointed star. “Yes. We’re okay.”

He waited until she looked at him again. “Okay,” he said. 

She finished his symbol feeling lighter than when she’d started. She filled in the final sunburst ray and lifted the stencil. “Looks good. Where do you want the next one?”

“My turn,” he said, taking the stencil from her. He motioned for her to take his seat on the edge of the bed.

She sat. He slid the straps of her tank top and bra down over her shoulder and positioned the stencil just over her shoulder blade. The marker felt cold and wet against her skin. 

He worked quietly for a while, then spoke in a low voice. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ruthie swallowed hard. 

He was okay.

They were okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we okay?


	18. Chapter 18

Dean waited for a minute after Ruthie finished the final symbol on his lower back to let the ink dry before pulling his shirt on. At the table across the room, Sam and Father Murray were doing the same. Cas stood at the window, watching the road.

“So, what’s our next step?” the priest asked.

Everyone turned to look at Dean.

“We find the bastard,” he said.

“And then?” Ruthie asked.

“Not much we can do except track him until Crowley gets back,” Sam said.

“Castiel, is there nothing you can do?” Father Murray asked. “I mean, considering you’re…”

Cas looked grim. “I doubt that even an angel blade would be effective against a demon like Azar.” He glanced over at Dean. “Though I’d be willing to try.”

“No,” Dean said, his guts clenching up at the thought. “You’d only get one shot, and if it didn’t work, he’d torch you. Not worth the risk.”

“But once Crowley’s back, then what?” Ruthie asked. “What’s our plan?”

“Well, we know Azar wants Sam.”

“And you two,” Sam added.

“Yeah, but he wants you most,” Dean said. “He needs his vessel back. So, we pick another place where he can’t use fire.”

“Do you think that will work twice?” Father Murray asked.

Dean shrugged. “If he wants Sam back, he has to go to Sam. So, we pick the place. Sam stays put. Advantage: us.”

“Makes sense,” Ruthie said. “Got a place in mind?”

“Nothing specific yet. We need to look around. Maybe a factory? Chemical plant? Someplace with lots of explosives or flammable gas. You got any ideas, Padre?”

Father Murray’s face screwed up in concentration. “I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. But let me make a few calls. I’m sure we can find something.”

“Good. So, as soon as Crowley gets back here, we camp out at our spot. Let Azar know we’re there. When he shows up, we reverse-exorcise his ass into the container and Crowley hauls him back to Hell.”

Slow nods surrounded him. They were in agreement. Or at least, nobody had any better ideas.

“Well then,” Father Murray said. “Would it be alright if I go to visit Annette Fuller? It’s been a few days since I’ve seen her, and she was scheduled for a skin graft yesterday.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “Just keep your radio on you.”

“I’ll go back to the police station,” Cas said. “Maybe they’ve heard something since I left.”

“I’ve got a better use for you.” Crowley was standing by the door.

Father Murray jumped.

“It’s about time,” Dean said.

“What use for me?” Cas asked, looking suspicious.

“The permanent enclosure for Azar in Hell,” Crowley said. “I’ve warded it every way I can, but my Enochian is a little rusty. I need to add some angelic sigils just to be safe.”

Dean’s blood pressure spiked. “You’re not done yet?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I’m doing the job right, the first time. Unlike some.”

“How long will it take?” Sam asked before Dean could tell Crowley where to stick his job.

“Not long. Final touches.”

“What about the container?” Ruthie asked.

Crowley crossed the room and set the black case on the table. “After much research and deliberation, I’ve concluded it needs just one improvement.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“A devil’s trap. On the lid. That should hold him more than long enough for me to get him back to the Lake.”

“And you want us to make it?” Dean asked. “You couldn’t do it yourself?”

“I’m not in the habit of drawing devil’s traps,” Crowley said. “I came to the experts. Besides, I’ll need to oversee the warding of the holding area.” He gave Dean an oily smile. “Like any good manager, I’m delegating tasks below my pay grade.”

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. His brother was thinking the same thing: it had been too long since one of them had punched Crowley in the face.

“Oh, and no cheap shortcuts,” Crowley added, pointing his chin toward the Sharpies on the table. “This one needs to be etched into the metal.”

“Why?” Sam demanded.

“Well you see, this demon is not like the others,” Crowley explained in a patient voice, as though talking to a three year old. “He is the essence of hellfire, and if he’s able to superheat the metal, any ink on it could be compromised. That means it could thin or run, which could break the circle of the devil’s trap. And if that happens—”

“Okay, okay,” Sam cut him off. “We get it.”

“Crowley, the souls he took—” Ruthie began.

“Ah, hello, Girl Squirrel. Are you still on about this?” Crowley said. “Your righteous crusade for justice?”

“It’s not right,” she insisted. “It’s not fair.”

Crowley pointed at himself. “Demon.” He turned toward Cas. “Shall we?”

Cas frowned. “I can’t just walk into Hell.”

“You’re my guest. You’re under my protection.”

“No, I mean—” Cas’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “I don’t have wings. I can’t get there.”

Crowley heaved a sigh. “Must I do everything around here?” He took Cas by the elbow, and they both vanished.

“Asshole,” Ruthie muttered.

Something warm swelled in Dean’s chest. He was going to marry her. He’d wait her out. However long it took, he’d wait. He was going to put that ring on her hand.

Father Murray still stood where he’d been when Crowley appeared. He swayed a little, looking shell-shocked. “I don’t know how you get used to it,” he said in a squeaky voice.

“I’ll go to the police station,” Ruthie said, digging through the bag on her bed and pulling out a long white skirt. “You guys can work on the devil’s trap.”

“I can come with you,” Dean said.

“It’s okay,” she said on her way into the bathroom. “It’s a one person job. You two can have some guy time.” She smiled at him and closed the door.

“Did Cas leave his keys?” Sam asked.

Dean glanced around the room. “Nope.”

“I can give her a ride,” Father Murray offered. “I’ll drop her off on my way to the hospital.”

Dean nodded. Being away from her still made him nervous, especially after the other day. But he shoved his worry aside. She was a grown woman. He couldn’t watch over her every moment, no matter how much he wanted to.

Ruthie came out of the bathroom, wearing her long, flowing white skirt. With a simple brown tank top trimmed in white lace, and her long, straight hair, she looked like a flower child. “I thought this was better than walking around in shorts with Sharpied pentagrams all over my legs.”

“Nah. Covering your legs is always a bad idea.”

“I’ll wait in the car,” the priest said, hurrying out the door.

Ruthie put her arms around Dean’s neck. He wrapped his around her waist. “Be careful,” he said.

“You too.” She stretched up and kissed him. A good, long kiss. He wished he hadn’t stopped her when she tried to jump him in the car that morning. It had been too long.

“Get a room,” Sam said.

“You’re in it,” Dean told him.

“Bye, boys,” Ruthie said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

Dean watched the door close behind her before turning to Sam, who had opened the case and was lifting the container out of it. “Let’s get to work,” Dean said. “I’ll feel a lot better once we shove that bastard back in the pit.”

 

* * *

  
“You’re sure I haven’t offended you?” Father Murray seemed anxious to patch things up.

“I’m sure. Really, it’s fine.” It was easier for Ruthie to be forgiving now that she knew everything was good between her and Dean. Easier for her to ignore the uncomfortable feelings his words had triggered, too.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the priest said. “The way you looked… I feared I’d said something wrong.”

“Forget it,” Ruthie said.

“Alright.” He glanced sideways at her before putting his eyes back on the road. “I still can’t believe I’m working with demon hunters and an angel.”

“You were great yesterday,” Ruthie said. “It’s nice to have your help.”

“I’m pleased to be useful.” He pulled into the police station parking lot. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll run home to shower and change after I visit Annette. I always try to do that right after I’ve been at the hospital. So many germs, you know.”

“Sure,” Ruthie said. “That’s fine.” She pointed to his right hand. “Might want to be careful about that.” With his arm bent to hold the steering wheel, his sleeve rode up enough to show the edge of the Sharpie tattoo on his wrist.

“You’re right,” he said, tugging his sleeve down to cover the symbol. “That could lead to some awkward questions, couldn’t it?” Once it was hidden, he faced her again.

“So, I’ll come pick you up afterward? Hopefully you’ll have a lead on the demon. If not, perhaps we should go look for a place that fits Dean’s description?”

“That's a good idea.” She knew they needed to find Azar, but they also needed to have their plan ready to execute when they found him.

“Right, then. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

Ruthie waved to him from the sidewalk and headed into the station. Deputy Chavez greeted her, and told her Chief Watts was out working the gas station explosion. She asked if they’d had any new missing person reports. They hadn’t. He pointed her to the desk chair Cas had occupied overnight, and she settled in to wait for any leads.

It was a slow couple of hours. Several rowdy drunks got into a fistfight at Donny’s bar, and a cranky farmer chased his neighbor’s dog off his property with a shotgun.

“Crazy old pendejo,” Chavez said on his way out the door.

She sat up on high alert when a call came in about a fire at the high school, but it was a false alarm. Turned out a few kids who’d been smoking in the bathroom panicked when a teacher came in, throwing their cigarettes in the trash can and igniting all the paper towels.

Ruthie checked the clock again. Nearly two hours. Father Murray should be back soon. She frowned to herself, wishing she’d gotten something that could pass as a lead. Had Azar not taken a new vessel yet? Had he gone on to some other town? Surely not. He wanted Sam back, didn’t he?

If he had taken a vessel, he’d done it quietly enough that no one had noticed yet. Vessels usually lasted him about forty-eight hours, if their timeline was correct. It had been a little less than twenty-four since they’d forced him out of Sam. Wherever he was, he was being careful to fly well under the radar. She didn’t like it. She’d feel a lot better once they knew what he was up to.

Father Murray’s little red car pulled up outside. Ruthie grabbed her purse and pulled out her radio. “Come in, Bo.”

He answered right away. “Everything okay? Over.”

Always worried about her. She grinned on her way out the door. “Yes. Just wanted to tell you we’re going to go look for a place like you described.”

“No sign of him then? Over.”

“No. Nothing yet. How about you? How’s the art project coming?”

“Slow. This metal is hard, whatever it is. But we’ll get there. Over.”

“Is Cooter back yet?”

“Not yet. Over.”

She opened the passenger door and climbed in, giving Father Murray a nod of greeting before pressing her button again. “Okay. We’ll let you know when we find a good spot.”

“Alright. Daisy? Be safe. Over.”

“Copy that.”

“Any luck?” Father Murray asked while he backed out of the parking space.

She shook her head. “Azar’s keeping a really low profile. It’s making me nervous, to be honest.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later,” the priest said. “He won’t hide forever.”

“No,” Ruthie agreed. “It’s when and where he’ll turn up that has me worried.”

“I believe everything will work out the way it’s meant to in the end.” He winked at her and gestured to his clerical collar. “I have faith.”

“You seem pretty upbeat. How was Annette?”

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to see her. They were cleaning her burns and replacing her bandages. It’s a long process. I should have called ahead.”

“So, what were you doing the past couple hours then?” After her fruitless hours at the station, she felt a little annoyed that he hadn’t offered to come get her.

“I went home to make those calls. About a suitable place for our…confrontation?”

“Oh. And? Any good leads?”

He nodded. “A place outside of town. It sounds perfect.”

“Great. What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Ruthie tried to read his expression from his profile. Why keep it a secret? Not like it was Christmas or something. Maybe he was just really excited about contributing.

“May I ask you something, Ruthie?”

“Sure.”

“Earlier, you told me you turned Dean down because you didn’t want him to feel justified in risking himself or Sam for you. Do you believe, as things stand now, that he’d hesitate at all if he thought you were in danger?”

Ruthie’s muscles all tensed. She’d thought they were done talking about this. Still, he had a point. One she’d wrestled with more than he could possibly know. But she’d taken care of it. As well as she could, anyway. “Sam and I have an agreement.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really? What sort of agreement?”

He might be a priest, and he might be helping them, but it didn’t mean she had to tell him everything. “It’s between me and Sam. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He lifted one hand off the steering wheel in a placating gesture. “Forgive me. It’s my counselor training kicking in, I suppose. I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation, and wondering how I might help you find clarity. But of course, if you don’t want to talk about it…” He trailed off, glancing at her pointedly.

She didn’t take the bait. “Thanks.” She faced front, watching the last buildings pass by as they headed east out of town.

He didn’t press her. They rode in silence for the next twenty minutes as the setting sun washed the trees and fields in soft, filtered light. The asphalt hummed under the tires. They only passed one other vehicle on the lonely road: a tractor rumbling along.

“How much farther?” she asked.

“We’re almost there.”

A minute later, he turned off the road onto a grassy path through a cornfield. The little car bumped and jostled its way down the trail for about a hundred yards before the path opened up into a clearing. A long, low, white building sat there—at least, it had been white at some point. Most of the paint had peeled away, leaving gray wood exposed. The corrugated metal roof was in pretty good shape aside from some hail damage. Her curiosity piqued, Ruthie wondered what was inside. Had someone stored dangerous chemicals here? Fertilizer, maybe?

Father Murray turned off the car and grinned at her before climbing out. She walked with him around to the narrow end of the building, where they found a door. He pushed it open, and she followed him inside. The floor felt soft under her sandals; it was covered with a thick layer of dirt and decomposing bits of straw. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She peered around, coughing a little in the dusty air. One long wall was lined with open-sided wooden cubbies, about eighteen inches square. All empty. At the far end of the building, on the short wall opposite them, a small rectangular opening just over the floor let in some light. She didn’t see any tanks, no sacks of old fertilizer. Her shoulders drooped. “This is just an old chicken coop.”

“Yes, it would appear so,” the priest said. He strolled toward the far wall, examining the building as he went.

“So we came all this way for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “I think we can make use of it.”

His positivity was starting to grate on her nerves. “How? There’s nothing flammable here. No gas, no chemicals. This isn’t what we need at all.”

He walked back toward her, running his hand along the row of nesting boxes. He stopped in front of her, arm outstretched, resting on the nearest one. “Wood burns.”

“Yes, but not explosively. Not enough to stop Azar from using fire near Sam.” Hadn't he been paying attention?

“Perhaps not. But this place is remote. Far from any other people. No one else will get dragged into our fight. Isn’t that something to consider?”

“Yes, but—” The rest of her sentence died out as her eyes fell on his outstretched arm. His hand still lay on the empty nesting box, and his black sleeve wasn’t long enough to hide the deep, angry burn on his wrist where the anti-possession symbol had been.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. She wanted to run, but she knew it was useless; and besides, fear had bolted her feet to the floor.

He studied her face while a wide grin spread over his own. “You can be thankful for that, at least, Ruthie,” he said. “No other innocents will die here today, because no one will hear you scream.”

He closed his eyes. For one instant, time stood still, and the only sound was the deafening roar of blood rushing past her ears. Then he opened them again.

Not blue. Dark, solid red, with vertical black slits.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The writer is both a sadist and a masochist. We create people we love, and then we torture them. The more we love them, and the more cleverly we torture them along the lines of their greatest vulnerability and fear, the better the story." -Janet Fitch

Those red eyes held her paralyzed, like a mouse in front of a cobra. Though even if she could have run, she wouldn’t have gotten far. 

“Poor Father Murray,” he said, with the priest’s own voice. “When a distraught parishioner showed up on his doorstep, he didn’t think twice. He just invited me in.” Azar licked his lips. “It couldn’t have been simpler.” He tilted his head to the side. “On second thought, it could have been much simpler. For him.” He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the deep burn on the priest’s wrist. “Did none of you ever stop to consider that by covering yourselves in these symbols, you were merely guaranteeing yourselves more pain once I found you?” He inclined his head toward her. “Well, not you of course. You know it’s not your vessel I desire. I admit, I’m surprised you bothered. I thought we understood one another better than that. But Sam? And this man of the cloth?” A spine-shivering smile stretched his lips. “Oh, how he screamed.”

The image burned into Ruthie’s brain: Father Murray, cornered in his own home, helpless to stop the demon from burning away every symbol on his arms, legs, back, and chest. A shudder shook her body. The motion broke her paralysis; she spun and sprinted toward the door.

She made it two steps. An invisible force caught her and hurled her backward the whole length of the building. She slammed into the far narrow wall and stuck there, held fast as though by steel restraints. Her head rang; the impact knocked the air from her lungs. She wheezed until she was able to pull in a normal breath. Her arms were stretched out to her sides; her heels pressed against the wall a few inches above the floor. 

Azar walked calmly toward her, his eyes blue once more. “Now, then. You’re going to invite Sam and Dean to come join us.”

Time seemed to grind into slow motion. Her pounding heart decelerated. This was it. The scenario she’d feared for so long. How many different ways had she imagined it? Some monster trying to use her to get Sam and Dean? Now that it was here, she felt strangely detached, even confident. Azar had miscalculated. She wouldn’t betray them, no matter what he did to her. 

She couldn’t pull her head away from the wall, but she could shake it. “No. I won’t.”

His white teeth gleamed in the light from the little opening near the floor beside her. “Yes you will.”

“I’ll die first.”

He held up a finger. “No, you’ll die second. After they arrive. I will be sure they see it happen.”

“I’m not telling them to come here. I won’t.”

He stepped up closer, until they were face to face. “You’ll try not to. But you will.” He reached behind his back and pulled out his radio. He held it up between them and winked at her again. He pressed the button.

She opened her mouth to warn them, to yell, “It’s Azar!” but he lifted his free hand and brought his fingers and thumb together, imitating a mouth closing. Something in her larynx clicked, closed off. She could breathe, but she couldn't make a sound.

“Sam, Dean, come in,” he said, never taking his eyes off her. Even blue, they still burned.

Several seconds ticked by. “Hey, uh, are we sure this channel’s empty? Someone’s wondering why no call signs,” Sam’s voice crackled. Then he sighed and said, “Over.”

“I think we’re beyond silly games, Sam,” Azar said. “Ruthie and I are twenty minutes east of you on County Road 4. Turn left into the cornfield just after you pass the road marked 550 North. You should join us as soon as possible.”

Ruthie tried to shout; her mouth formed the words, but air rushed uselessly through her throat.

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s voice. Hard and anxious.

“You defied me. And now Ruthie will pay the price.” He kept the button pressed while he raised his free hand toward her left arm, his fingers and thumb still closed together. He reached for the area between her shoulder and elbow. Heat radiated from his fingers, scalding the tender skin from inches away. He moved the radio a little closer to her, and an eager light flashed in his eyes. 

She realized what was about to happen an instant before it did. She clenched her teeth.

He opened his hand, returning her voice. The next moment, his ovenlike fingers closed around her arm.

Pain detonated in her nerve endings, setting them on fire. An involuntary cry burst into her throat, but she caught it. She held her breath, lips clamped together, suppressing the pressure building in her chest as her arm screamed. She wrenched her face away from the hissing beneath his palm, the smell of her own burning skin. She came face to face with the radio, his thumb still depressing the button. Sam and Dean were at the other end, listening. 

She gritted her teeth harder, squeezed her eyes shut tight, focusing all her willpower on keeping silent. She had to be strong. She wouldn’t help Azar torture them, too. 

But her arm was on fire; her throat was about to burst.

She ordered herself to hold on. Surely soon he’d burn through her pain receptors and she wouldn’t feel anything. Just a few more seconds.

He twisted his hand, a simple quarter turn around her arm. 

Her burned skin tore loose, folding up on itself like snow in front of a plow. 

An awful sound exploded from her mouth. She couldn’t remember Sam or Dean or anything except the indescribable pain mushrooming inside her arm. The screams kept coming, one after another. 

She didn’t know how many had traveled through the radio waves before he finally took his hand away. She panted, hanging limply from the wall. Fire still raged in her arm. Static crackles filled the air. Familiar noises. No, a voice, shaking with rage and fear.

“… _son of a bitch,_ if you touch her again I swear—”

Azar pressed the button, cutting off Dean’s threat. He waited a moment before speaking in a low voice. “This is happening to her because of you, Dean. The longer it takes you to get here, the longer you give me to keep hurting her. I will not stop. I hope you arrive soon, for Ruthie’s sake. And Dean? Do not come without Sam.”

“Sam—” she gasped.

Azar reached up without warning, pointing at the empty spot in the center of her pentagram brand, fully visible above the white lace trim of her tank top. He pressed his glowing fingertip into it. A shriek tore from her lungs before she could stop it. 

He withdrew his finger, looking like he’d just enjoyed a satisfying meal. 

“We’re coming, okay?” Dean’s voice was taut, on the edge of snapping. “You don’t need to hurt her. We’re coming right now.” 

“No.” She tried to shout it, but only a hoarse whisper came out.

“What’s that?” Azar asked. He pressed the transmit button again and held the radio up for her. “Ruthie wishes to say something.”

She tried again. Her voice came out raw and trembling. “Sam, you promised. You promised me.” 

Azar let go of the button and regarded her with curiosity. “What did Sam promise you?”

The radio stayed quiet, and so did she. She imagined Dean was asking Sam the very same thing. 

Azar watched her for several more moments. “Ah, well.” He pulled something small from his pocket. “Sam made a promise to you. I made a promise to Dean. At least one of us will keep our word.” He slid a thick rubber band down over the radio. When it was level with the transmit button, he stretched and twisted it, then wrapped it once more around the radio. The heavy elastic held the button down in the talk position. Azar set it down just inside the nearest nesting box, facing Ruthie.

Despite the blaze in her arm, a cold sweat broke out all over her skin. “Sam, turn off the radios. Turn them off now.”

Azar advanced on her with a leering grin. “Where shall we begin? Perhaps we’ll start at the bottom and work our way up.” He knelt before her and gently removed one sandal, then the other.

Her breaths came fast and thin; dread gripped her, rattled her body against the wall. “Please, Sam! Turn them—”

A blowtorch bored through the arch of her left foot. Black and red fireworks exploded before her eyes, filling her vision, filling her mind. Her arms and legs strained so hard, so rigid, she was sure her bones would break. Her own screams faded into background noise. There was no room in her consciousness for anything but the all-consuming pain. It was unbearable, unendurable. She was drowning in it, like an ocean of black fire.

“There, there.” Father Murray’s soothing voice drew her back to the surface. “Take a moment.”

Panting and trembling, she looked into his blue eyes. Was she dreaming? Was it over? Searing waves still crashed over her arm and foot.

“That’s it. Breathe. Very good.” He watched for a moment while she caught her breath. “Shall we continue? I wish to try something new.” He held out his palm toward her ankles. A narrow jet of fire shot out, igniting the hem of her skirt. Flames raced up the fabric, licking the side of her leg, lashing at it like a hundred white-hot whips.

She screamed and tried to run, but she was welded to the wall. Her muscles wrenched uselessly. The flames reflected in the priest’s bright eyes. He watched them while she writhed, then held out his hand once more. He turned it toward himself, closing his fist. The fire instantly died. She gasped for breath, pulling acrid smoke down her throat into her lungs. She coughed and gagged. The right side of her skirt was gone, burned away. Ragged, blackened cotton framed her right leg, the skin of which glowed red now from ankle to hip. A stream of white blisters began to appear, flowing along the scarlet trail left in the flames’ wake.

“Interesting,” he said, sounding pleased. “I am improving.” He examined his palm, where a large blister was expanding like a balloon. He glanced behind him at the radio, then crouched down again, peering up at her with a coy smile. He slid his hand up her unburned leg, beneath her skirt, stopping halfway up. He pressed four blazing fingers into the sensitive skin in the bend of her knee.

Her throat was too raw to produce any more screams. A guttural, animal cry rasped out instead. 

She tilted her face toward the ceiling, away from her ravaged limbs, and spotted an ancient spider web there. She focused on it while her chest heaved, stubbornly supplying her with oxygen. Prolonging her ordeal. Delaying the inevitable.

Her agony was constant now. An unbroken, jarring chord, like the steady tone of a heart monitor when a patient flatlined. Intermittent spikes of heat told her he was burning her again. Low-pitched moans escaped her lips then. Her body went rigid during the spikes, her back arching away from the wall, then sagging when they ended. Tremors shook her as she hung there. 

Azar had been purposeful, her detached nurse brain realized, in giving her only second degree burns this time. Never deadening her nerve endings. Every cell in her body screamed for relief, for a pool of cool water. For death, if it would only end the burning. 

How long had she been here, pinned to this wall? How long since he’d first touched her with that fiery hand? It felt like an eternity. Like Hell.

Sam must have listened. He must have kept his promise. 

If she’d had any strength left at all, the thought would have made her smile.

A hot hand struck her across the cheek. “Ruthie.” Azar sounded irritated, as though he’d been trying to get her attention for some time. 

She pulled her gaze away from the spider web and looked at him. 

“There you are,” he said. “They will be here soon. I need you to be present.”

She blinked at him. “What?” Her lips formed the word, but her voice wouldn’t work.

“Sam and Dean,” he said. “They will be arriving shortly.”

“No,” she croaked. They couldn’t be. It had been days since she’d heard Dean’s voice through the radio. Hadn’t it? And Sam had promised her. They weren’t coming. They were waiting for Crowley and Cas. They wouldn’t come until they could beat Azar.

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s been nearly fifteen minutes now. And I want you awake and aware at the moment of your death. I want Dean to see the light leave your eyes. I need him to be properly motivated if I am to collect his soul.”

She stared at him while an icy hand gripped her heart. A shiver shook her, though it did nothing to cool her burning flesh. She noticed the light now, coming from the opening down to her left. It was almost exactly the same as when Azar had first flung her against this wall. Still evening. The same day. Her mind reeled, trying to reconcile the ages of suffering she’d endured to the dawning fact that her torture had really only begun a quarter of an hour ago. 

“He won’t,” she rasped. 

“He won’t what?” Azar asked. “Sell his soul?”

“Never.” She shook her head, but stopped when the room swirled around her. 

Azar tilted his head to one side as though pondering the idea. “You don’t think so? Not even when he’s just watched the woman he loves die horribly right before his eyes? When I’ve pinned his brother to the wall and burned away every warding sigil? When he realizes he’s about to be completely alone?” He took a step closer, so close his breath warmed her face. “Not even when I offer to bring you back to him?”

The frozen hand squeezed like a vise; her constricted heart thudded frantically in her chest. The pain saturating every fiber of her physical being clouded her mind. She could hardly think; she was reduced to instinctive knowledge. 

Azar was right. 

Dean was on his way. Nothing could have stopped him: not her turning down his proposal, not Sam, not Hell’s entire army of demons. Plan or no plan, with or without Crowley, he would come for her. He’d try to save her. 

And if he couldn’t? If Azar murdered her in front of him—which she had no doubt he would do—would Dean sell his soul to bring her back? Would he really agree to return to Hell, knowing what lay in store for him?

The icy hand clenched into a fist. Her heart spasmed, jolting her whole body.

“Take mine,” she whispered. 

“What was that?” He lowered his ear to her mouth. “I didn’t hear.”

“I want to make a deal,” she said.

He straightened up, his eyes glinting. “Indeed?” He produced a scroll of parchment, seemingly from thin air, and unrolled it, letting it drop toward the ground. He held a quill pen poised over the paper. “Your terms?”

She was giving him exactly what he wanted. That knowledge added insult to her many injuries. But it didn’t matter. Better her than Dean.

She fought back the black cloud of pain. She had to think clearly. “You can’t touch Dean. You will not harm him in any way. Not his body. Not his soul.”

The quill scratched across the parchment.

“He can never enter into any contract with you,” she continued. “And you will forbid every other demon from making a contract with him.”

The scratching paused. “I cannot enforce a clause concerning other demons.”

She forced her mind to keep working, to come up with an alternative. “You will retain exclusivity over my soul.” She choked on the words, but kept going. “You will never allow me to be part of any other contract.”

One corner of his mouth stretched upward. The quill scribbled across the paper again. “Anything else?”

“You won’t possess Sam again.”

His face hardened. “No. That I will not agree to.”

She’d known it was a long shot. She just have to trust that Dean’s plan would work, and they’d get Sam back eventually. “Dean can never trade his soul for me. No one can. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” He turned the scroll toward her. “Do you wish to review the contract before you sign?”

Her skin still broiled as though she was in a furnace. She tried not to think about this unendurable pain lasting forever. Tried not to imagine being at the mercy of the hellfire demon for eternity.

She ordered herself to focus on the shiny, wet ink, the thin, slanted words. She spotted the phrase, “Azar the Eternal agrees never to touch Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester will not be harmed in any way, neither in body nor soul.” And then, “This contract is final. No subsequent transactions involving the soul of Ruthie Trujillo will be permitted.” She gave Azar a single nod.

He drew the bottom of the parchment upward and signed his name with a flourish. Then he turned it toward her again and placed the quill in her outstretched hand. Her arm dropped free from the wall, heavy and shaking. The quill fell to the ground. Azar stooped to retrieve it, and pressed it into her hand again.

She lifted it with effort, placing the tip of the pen against the paper, on the empty line waiting for her name. 

Her name. Still Ruthie Trujillo. 

She should have said yes. She should have had him drive her straight to the courthouse, picking up Sam on the way to be their witness. She should have become Ruthie Winchester without hesitating for a single moment.

She’d been stupid to think she could keep him from coming for her. From risking everything to save her. Father Murray had been right. She’d tried to protect Dean by pushing him away.

But there was only one way to protect him now. 

She blinked, fighting back a dry sob. Two tears splashed onto the parchment Azar held out. 

She signed her name.


	20. Chapter 20

Azar held up the scroll, admiring her signature. He beamed, looking as proud as a new father. “Excellent,” he murmured. He rolled it up and took the quill from her. With a flick of his hand, her arm was yanked back up against the wall, outstretched.

Ruthie closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks, cooling them for a few fleeting seconds. She’d sold her soul. Her destiny was set. An eternity of this agony awaited her. Azar had won.

But Dean was safe, she reminded herself. The demon couldn’t touch him. Dean would never be able to sacrifice himself to save her. He’d be furious, but there was nothing he could do about it. 

At least she’d have ten years with him. Ten brief years before they had to say goodbye forever. 

A low rumble approached, growing louder by the second. The Impala’s engine roared up to the building, then cut off. Two doors swung open. Footsteps pounded along the ground, then Dean burst through the doorway, Sam at his heels. 

She should have known. Sam would never have kept that promise, no more than Dean would have. She’d been wrong to ask it of him. 

“Ah! Sam, Dean. I’m so pleased to see you.” Azar sounded delighted.

Dean’s eyes blazed in the dim light. They locked onto Ruthie, taking in her burn-covered arms and legs, what was left of her skirt, her tearstained cheeks. His jaw flexed, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

She couldn’t look at him anymore. Her gaze shifted to Sam, but he looked the same: like he’d just taken a two-by-four to the stomach. 

“We’re here. Let her go,” Dean said through clenched teeth.

Azar tore his eyes from Sam to glance at Ruthie. “Ruthie and I have just been finishing up some private business. Ah, that reminds me,” he said lightly. He stepped up to her, tilted the priest’s face, and kissed her full on the lips. With her head pressed to the wall, she couldn’t recoil from him.

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Dean pounded toward them, drawing the demon knife from behind his back. 

Azar stepped back and aimed a glowing palm at Ruthie’s chest. Dean skidded to a stop.

“Wise choice,” Azar said. “No need for jealousy, Dean. That was a purely professional kiss. A requirement for every transaction.”

Dean froze, then his eyes jumped to Ruthie. They widened when she didn’t deny Azar’s implication. 

“I had to,” she whispered.

The anguish on his face was a whole new form of torture. 

She forced her gaze over to Sam again. He looked pale and stunned, and on the verge of tears. She spotted the dark container in his hand, down at his side. They must have finished the devil’s trap. But Crowley hadn’t given them the reverse exorcism spell. It was useless without him.

“So you burned her until she sold her soul to make you stop.” Dean looked as though he were trying to set Azar on fire with his eyes. “You know you’re breaking every rule, right? Crowley’s never gonna honor these contracts.”

The spark of hope lit by his words died an instant later when he clenched his teeth. He was bluffing again.

Azar drew himself up taller. “I certainly did not. She acted of her own free will. I did not even suggest we enter into an agreement. She did.”

Ruthie couldn’t look the brothers in the eye. 

Dean’s face dropped toward the ground for a moment, his lips pressed tight. Then he looked up at Azar. “Where’s the contract?”

“It’s safe.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. “Tear it up. Whatever deal you made with her, I’ll give you a better one.”

Azar held up his hands. “Even if I wanted to, I cannot. Ruthie made sure of that.”

She kept her head down. She couldn’t bear to look at Dean.

“She drives a hard bargain,” Azar continued, “but I am pleased with our deal. Very pleased indeed.”

Dean stayed quiet so long, she finally looked back up. He was glaring at Azar. “If she made a deal with you, then you’re done. You can let her go.”

“Yes, I could. I will, very soon.”

Sam strode forward. “What are you waiting for?”

A blood-chilling howl ripped the dusty air. Ruthie gasped. The other three looked at her.

“She hears them,” Azar said with an eager gleam in his eye.

A chorus of unearthly, growling barks drew nearer. Chills swept over Ruthie’s seared skin; her pulse throbbed high in her throat. “You can’t," she choked. “I get ten years.”

“That is the default, yes,” Azar agreed, grinning at her with Father Murray’s mouth. “But you didn’t specify a time frame when you named your terms. I filled in my own. ‘Effective immediately upon execution of contract.’ You did review the contract, did you not?”

Heavy paws pounded the ground; the walls of the chicken coop trembled. Ruthie’s pulse pounded in her throat. She strained to pull herself down from the wall, but she couldn’t move. 

“Hellhounds?” Dean looked as horrified as if he could hear them himself—although of course, he couldn’t.

They were coming for her. 

Azar ignored him, still grinning at Ruthie. “You signed, did you not?” He ran a cool finger down her cheek. “I may not be able to touch Dean, but I can stand back and watch while he suffers. His punishment for defying me.” Abruptly, he spun around. “Sam. Join us.” He beckoned with one hand, and Sam flew through the air, crashing into the wall beside Ruthie. The heavy metal canister dropped to the ground where Sam had been standing. 

Azar walked over to Sam and gazed up at him. “We’ll watch until the very end, the three of us. Then we will be together again, you and I. How I have missed you, Sam Winchester. Have you missed me?” He laid a hand on Sam’s chest in a sickening caress, then stepped to the side, against the wall. He leaned back and folded his arms, watching in anticipation, blue eyes glinting in the shadows.

Sam glared at him, but ferocious howls jerked Ruthie’s attention away. The pack was closing in.

“Dean.”

His gaze snapped to her, wide and scared. His knuckles were white around the handle of the demon knife.

So many things she wanted to say, but there was no time. She wanted years with him; she wanted forever with him, but it was too late. 

“I should have said yes.”

His eyelids shuddered; the muscles at the corners of his jaw bulged. 

Vicious snarls, just outside. 

“They’re here,” she breathed. “Don’t watch.”

Dean jolted. He rushed toward her, then spun around, facing the door, brandishing the demon blade. 

Azar’s laughter sliced through the air just before a monstrous, spectral dog crashed through the doorway. Saliva hung in long ropes from its open jaws. Huge, curved teeth filled its dark mouth, and its animal eyes glowed a dull red. A low growl rumbled from its throat as it prowled toward her. Another wolflike dog followed it inside, then a third. 

Ruthie tried to shrink back into the wall. She couldn’t tear her gaze from those feral red eyes. Helpless to defend herself, she felt a rush of gratitude to Dean for putting himself between her and the beasts. She hated herself for it. He shouldn’t be here at all; she didn’t want him in harm’s way. But she couldn’t help it: now that death was staring her in the face, she was afraid. She didn’t want to die alone.

The hellhounds stalked closer; the second two moved out to the sides, flanking their leader. 

“How many?” Dean shouted, holding the knife out in front of him. With his left arm, he tried to cover Ruthie. 

“Three.” Her breaths rushed in and out, shallow and thin.

“Where?”

She ought to beg him to get out of their way, but she wasn’t strong enough. She wasn’t brave enough. He’d never do it anyway. It didn’t matter that it was impossible for one man to fight off three hellhounds, blind. He wouldn’t leave her. She fought back her rising terror, tried to focus on being Dean’s eyes.

“Ten, twelve, and two o’clock. Ten feet and closing.”

To her right, Sam let out a low roar. Tendons strained from his arms; his hands clenched into white fists. He was trying to free himself, to help his brother. To protect Ruthie.

Azar laughed again. 

“Six feet,” Ruthie called out.

Dean’s head lowered; he was looking down at the hounds’ feet. He must be able to see their pawprints in the soft dirt. 

The monster to her right lowered itself into a crouch, its glowing eyes fixed on Dean.

“Dean, on your right!”

Dean spun toward the hellhound as it sprang. Its huge black body blurred past her, crashing into him, knocking him far to her left. It landed on top of him. She saw only his legs sticking out beneath it, kicking hard.

“Dean!”

The invisible force gluing her to the wall released. She dropped—right into the waiting jaws of the other two hellhounds.

She flung her hands out, an instinctive, defensive motion. Viselike teeth clamped down on one arm; the heavy head jerked downward, snapping her forearm and slamming her onto her back. She caught a split-second glimpse of Sam pinned to the wall, looking down at her, his face a mask of horror, mouth wide in a desperate yell.

Two hairy black heads filled her vision. Open, growling mouths poured hot, sulfurous breath onto her scorched skin. 

A shrill yelp. A heavy thud.

The hellhounds’ heads whipped around toward the noise. One bared its teeth and hurled itself at Dean with a snarl.

The other returned its attention to Ruthie. The enormous mouth opened again and clamped its teeth into her ribcage. Bones cracked under the crushing power of its jaws. A scream died in her raw throat, coming out as a hiss of breath. The monster ripped its mouthful free. 

She tried to push away the bloody snout, but it shoved her hands aside as if they were made of paper. The next bite tore into her stomach. She tried again to fight it off, but found she couldn’t raise her arms up from the soft layer of dirt on the floor.

Her vision clouded over. Sounds became clearer, more distinct. Dean’s grunts and shouts, claws tearing at fabric, the whistle of a blade slicing through the air. Azar laughing with Father Murray’s voice. Sam screaming her name, then Dean’s. Squelching sounds. Wet, tearing, ripping noises. Those last sounds accompanied a jerking sensation in her torso. Something tugging at her, merciless. Relentless.

Gift wrapping. That was all her body was. Packaging for her soul. The hellhound was tearing her open to get to it. 

Over and over, her back lurched up, only to drop back down. 

Bouncing. She wrapped her arms tighter around her daddy’s neck. Piggyback rides in the woods were her favorite. The tall, dark trees made her feel so small, but she was safe with him. He was so big and strong. Bounce, bounce, bounce. His boots made crunching noises in the snow. Faster, Daddy.

A woman was walking beside them, beaming up at Ruthie. Ruthie gazed at her face. She was so beautiful, and she had been away for so long. Where have you been, Mama? I missed you so much. She reached out her hand to touch her mother’s cheek.

Mike took her outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you. Monica’s told me so much about you.” His handsome face looked happy. Carefree. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what lay in store for him. 

She tried to warn him, but he slipped a big diamond onto her finger. It didn’t belong there. She couldn’t say yes, because she was in love with Dean. And didn’t Mike understand that he was dead?

She began to tell him, but he wasn’t Mike. He was Sam. Laughing, grinning at her so widely it dimpled his cheeks. He pulled her into his side; she rested her head on his shoulder. She wasn’t an only child anymore. She had a brother. 

She looked up into his face to tell him how much she loved him, but now he was Dean. Her Dean, leaning against the Impala. He looked so sad. She took his face in her hands. Her left ring finger was bare again. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I should have said yes.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked into her with his green eyes. 

She stretched up on tiptoe. She kissed his lips. His arms wrapped around her. Strong arms. They made her feel safe. She’d stay here with him like this forever. This was where she belonged. 

“NO!” 

She’d never heard him make a sound like that. A heart-stopping cry, as though he’d been mortally wounded. And Sam—he was sobbing. Her eyes snapped open. She was lying flat on her back. All she could see was the side of a hairy black head and one glowing red eye. She tried to call out to Dean, but something was wrong with her throat. Her airway was crushed; her skin felt so hot and wet and sticky. She couldn’t make a sound. She couldn’t breathe.

A primal yell, in Dean’s voice. Another sharp yelp.

The hellhound’s low growl vibrated through its teeth into her throat. A dozen sharp, buzzing puncture points of pressure. Its jaws tensed for an instant. 

Then everything tore away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	21. Chapter 21

“Dean, on your right!”

Dean spun, tried to brace himself, but the hellhound tackled him to the ground. Ruthie was unprotected. 

The creature didn't attack at first, just held him down with its giant paws on his shoulders, claws digging into his skin through his shirt. It was used to its victims being helpless. None of them had ever had a demon knife before. 

Through the invisible dog on top of him, Dean saw Ruthie fall, heard her arm snap as something threw her to the ground. He pointed the tip of the demon knife upward and stabbed as hard as he could. Hot breath blasted his face; even hotter blood poured onto his chest. He shoved the body off, yanked out the knife, and jumped to his feet. 

Ruthie lay face up, looking dazed. He made only one stride toward her before a second powerful hellhound slammed into him. He kept his feet this time, spinning away, but a mouthful of sharp teeth immediately sank into his leg. 

The sensation launched him back in time; an icy hot wave of déjà vu swept over him. 

Not again. 

Never again.

He struck with the knife, felt it connect. The teeth released him. Again he tried to rush to Ruthie. He caught one nightmarish glimpse of her side opening up as she weakly tried to push away her unseen attacker. Then the second hellhound knocked him back again, jumping, snapping, clawing. 

He sliced and stabbed at the empty air, but the hound always seemed to dodge just out of the reach of his blade. Every time he tried to run forward, to help Ruthie, it blocked his path. He roared in frustration. He was fighting deaf and blind.

But not completely. He could still hear Sam’s increasingly desperate yells. Still heard Azar cackling, clapping with glee. 

Worst of all, he could see Ruthie. Hard as he tried to focus on the paw prints flattening the dirt in front of him, showing him where to strike, he could still see her. She had stopped resisting. Her arms lay useless on the ground at her sides. More and more wounds tore open, jerking her limp body each time. Each tug felt like fangs ripping at his own guts. Her entire torso was drenched in red, the dirt around her black and wet. She stared up at the ceiling, her gaze distant.

She was smiling.

Sam wasn’t yelling anymore. He was sobbing. Even Azar had gone quiet. 

“NO!” He lowered the knife for an instant, bracing himself. The hellhound took the bait. Massive jaws clamped down on his shoulder. 

At the same moment, a deep bite mark appeared along Ruthie’s throat, a cruel, curved row of punctures. With a guttural cry, he plunged the knife into the hairy side hanging from his shoulder. The hound yelped, spasmed, went limp. He let it fall. 

He rushed forward as her throat tore away.

Everything went silent. He kept moving toward her, but in slow motion now. Like wading through quicksand. Like a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. 

He tried not to look at the devastation, at the blood, but it was everywhere. She lay perfectly still. Her lips were parted, her smile gone. Her eyes were half open, still staring at the ceiling. But they were dim and dry. No more jerking, no paw prints shuffling the dirt. The hellhound was gone—which could only mean one thing.

It had gotten what it came for.

He stood over her ruined body, feeling numb and empty. He’d been right there, just feet away. He’d watched it happen. And he hadn’t protected her. He hadn’t saved her. 

Not only had he failed to save her life; he’d failed to save her soul. Right now, she was being dragged to an eternity of torture. He knew. He’d been there. The thought of Ruthie in that place for even one minute… Tunnel vision made everything disappear except her vacant eyes, her slack mouth. He would have fallen to the ground, but his knees seemed locked in place. He spun away just in time to vomit on the dirt instead of her.

“Well, I must say, that was _very_ satisfying.” Azar’s voice pulled Dean back into the room. The demon inside Father Murray stood over Ruthie’s body, admiring the mess. “The beasts are quite thorough, aren’t they?” 

Sam sucked in a ragged breath. Tears still poured down his cheeks. 

Azar spun toward Sam, kicking a cloud of dust over Ruthie’s body. “Now, then.” He pushed Sam’s sleeve up, revealing the first anti-possession symbol on his forearm. He reached for it with a glowing palm.

Black rage launched Dean at the demon, knocking him away from Sam. Azar slammed into the adjacent wall; Dean pinned him there. Driven by pure fury, he drove the demon knife into the priest’s shoulder. The blade sliced clean through; its point stuck in the wood wall. A fiery light flashed from the spot.

The blue eyes flickered red for an instant. “You dare!” Azar aimed his hand at Dean’s face. 

“No!” Sam yelled.

Azar stopped. He kept his hand raised, but only glared at Dean. His gaze darted around, as though looking for a way out. 

Nose to nose with the demon, Dean paused. Why had Azar stopped? Not because of Sam. He didn’t have to obey Sam. Why wasn’t Dean on fire right now? He looked at the shaking, blistered palm.

The answer came to him. “You can’t touch me.”

The blue eyes flicked to Dean again. 

“I heard you. Ruthie’s deal.” Saying her name, knowing what lay on the ground right behind him, nearly brought him to his knees. But he kept going. “You can’t touch me. If you do, the contract is broken.”

Azar narrowed his eyes, but didn’t respond. 

Dean leaned in closer.

“Dean,” Sam warned.

Dean ignored him. “Bring her back.” He gripped the knife handle, pulled just hard enough to free its tip from the wood, and twisted.

Azar clenched his teeth; his palm began to glow. 

Dean twisted harder. Red-orange light flared from the widening wound. 

Azar snarled.

“Bring her back!” Dean shouted. He yanked out the knife and jammed it in again. 

Azar roared. The light in his palm intensified; Dean had to squint. 

Any second now, Azar would hit him, shove him, torch him. The contract would be broken. Ruthie’s soul at least would be free. And if Azar still wanted Dean’s soul, he’d have to bring her back in order to get it. 

“Ahem. It’s customary to bow when one is in the presence of the king.”

Dean and Azar both looked to see the speaker. Crowley and Cas had appeared inside the chicken coop. Crowley bent to pick up the container Sam had dropped.

“Your _majesty_.” Azar made Father Murray’s voice drip with derision. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You’ve been absent without leave.”

Azar raised his chin and looked down his nose at Crowley. “I do not require the permission of a glorified crossroads salesman. You’re not fit to warm your feet by my Lake.”

“Your Lake isn’t fit to warm anything currently. I’ll soon remedy that.” After a brief pause to give Azar a self-satisfied smirk, Crowley spoke again, incomprehensible words in a language Dean didn’t recognize. “θātiy Xšāyathiya θiya.”

Azar ground his teeth. 

Crowley walked toward them, still smirking. “Pasāva Azar frāišayam…” He unscrewed the lid.

“Wait,” Dean yelled. “Not yet.”

Crowley ignored him, totally focused on Azar. “Uvajam hauv āθrina…”

Azar lurched as though something were tugging at him, reminding Dean horribly of Ruthie being torn by the hellhound. The demon stretched out his burning hand past Dean, toward Crowley, and fired a jet of flame.

Crowley sidestepped the fire, which poured harmlessly into the soft dirt. 

Azar growled and shot another blazing stream. 

Crowley had to jump out of the way this time, but he held onto the container. Cas came forward too, keeping himself at a wider angle from Azar.

“Basta anayatā—”

Azar let out a furious yell and flicked his hand, sending Crowley crashing into the opposite wall. 

“Damn it, Crowley, wait!” Dean stepped in front of Azar’s hand and dragged the knife inward along the priest’s collarbone, drawing a stripe of bright light and a howl from the demon. Dean leaned close into Azar’s face. “Look at me,” Dean told him. “Bring her back. Let’s make a deal.” He jerked the knife again. 

Behind him, Crowley’s voice came again, hard and determined. “…abimām adamšim—”

Azar lurched again and roared, trying to reach around Dean toward Crowley. 

“Shut up!” Dean shouted to Crowley, keeping in himself front of Azar’s hand. “Hit me. Hit me!”

Behind him, Cas called out, “Crowley, wait.” His voice was taut and hoarse. He must have seen Ruthie.

Azar ducked his hand under Dean’s arm and fired a wild blast of liquid fire at the opposite wall.

Dean whipped around to see several nesting boxes go up in flames. But not Crowley. The king of Hell held out the open container, his face glowing, victorious. “Avājanam.”

Azar’s head snapped upward; his mouth opened wide. A twisting column of brick red smoke burst from his mouth and raced across the room, shooting straight into the metal canister in Crowley’s hands. Father Murray collapsed onto the ground; Sam slid down the wall. 

“No!” Dean ran at Crowley, throwing one hand up to shield his face from the heat of the fire spreading along the wall. 

Crowley didn’t seem to hear him. “Gotcha,” he said, and twisted the lid onto the canister. 

Dean reached out to grab it from him, to open it up and let Azar out, to save Ruthie. But his hands closed on empty air. Crowley had vanished. 

Dean stood there, staring at the space where Crowley had been. “No. No, no, no.” He whirled around to Cas, who was standing over Ruthie, looking stunned. “Bring him back.”

Cas looked up. “I can’t.”

Sam was kneeling by Ruthie’s head, his shoulders shaking. He reached out to touch her hair with a trembling hand. His chin dropped to his chest.

The fire burned higher up the wall. They had to move. It didn’t matter if Dean got out; he didn’t matter anymore. He had failed. He just wanted to lie down beside Ruthie, hold her in his arms and wait for the fire. But Sam and Cas, they still mattered. 

Cas. 

Cas was here.

Of course.

He ran toward Ruthie, scanning the room—there. In the last nesting box, beside the radio. A parchment scroll. He ran past the fire and grabbed it, tucked it into his waistband. “Let’s go,” he called to Sam and Cas. “We gotta get outta here.” He crouched down beside Ruthie. He fought down the wave of nausea cresting in his stomach, blinked back the hot needles behind his eyes. He slid one arm under her shoulders, then raised her into a sitting position. Her head lolled back impossibly far, her neck open and black with blood. 

He turned his face away and pushed his other arm under her legs. He hoisted her into his arms and stood up. He’d carried her before, back at the bunker, while she was asleep. He knew how she ought to feel; he remembered the weight of her in his arms. Just right, like she belonged there. But now she felt all wrong. Limp and heavy. Dead weight. He swallowed hard.

The fire was roaring now. “Sam! Let’s go.”

Sam jolted and looked up at him from a pale face. His eyes darted to the fire and widened, as though he’d just now noticed it. Cas grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. 

“Get him.” Dean pointed at Father Murray, still unconscious on the floor. 

Cas hurried to him and heaved the man over his shoulder. Dean led the way toward the door, turning sideways, putting his back to the wall of scorching heat, protecting Ruthie from any more burns. Her arms and legs dangled loose and lifeless. 

But not much longer.

Dean reached the doorway and stepped carefully through, squinting in the twilight after the darkness of the chicken coop. He carried her all the way to the edge of the clearing, beside the cornfield, far from the burning building. He lowered her gently to the grass, knelt beside her. Her face fell to one side, as though she were watching the fire.

Cas lay Father Murray down several feet away, then stood up. Sam stood off to the side, staring at the ground.

Dean motioned for Cas to come over. He came, walking slowly.

“Cas, fix her. Bring her back.” He had gravel in his throat. 

Cas flinched. Deep lines appeared in the corners of his eyes and mouth. He crouched down beside Dean and spoke in a low voice. “Dean—”

_“Don’t—”_ His throat tightened so much he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep going. “Don’t say you can’t. I need… Cas, I need you to bring her back.”

The angel lowered his face. He stayed quiet for a long time. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. He reached out and touched her forehead. Golden light shimmered over her. The deep, gaping bite wounds in her body blazed white. They filled in and closed. Her throat gradually reappeared, slender and perfect and covered in smooth olive skin. The shiny burns covering her arms and legs faded and disappeared. The blood vanished. Even her clothes mended.

Sam stood over them, watching with one hand over his mouth as Cas healed her.

Dean watched, heart throbbing in his throat, as she became whole again before his eyes. Beautiful, as good as new, as though the past hour had never happened. Only the white brand below her collarbone remained as proof she had ever met Azar. Cas lifted his fingers off her forehead; the golden light vanished. A wisp of dark hair wafted over her face, lifted by the breeze. Dean leaned over her, waiting for her eyes to flutter, for her chest to rise and fall. But her eyes stayed half open and dim, staring sightlessly at the burning building. She didn’t move. 

He waited several more moments, sure she’d blink and look at him any second. But she didn’t.

His mouth went very dry. “Cas?”

Cas crouched beside him, his head bowed, the deep creases still etching his face. “I was able to heal her body. But her soul… I can’t bring it back.”

The earth was shifting underneath him, its foundations cracking. If he couldn’t get Cas to understand, to do what he needed, the whole world would collapse in on itself and crush him. “You brought me back. Do it again.”

“Dean, that was different.”

“Like hell it was!” he exploded. “I made a deal, the hellhounds came, I died. I went to Hell. You got me out.” He flung a hand toward Ruthie’s blank face. “She made a deal, the hellhounds came, she—” His voice broke. It wouldn’t form the next words. Dean gritted his teeth and wiped a clammy, shaking hand across his forehead. “It’s exactly the same.” 

Cas absorbed his outburst. He kept looking down at Ruthie with a pained expression. “When I pulled you out, I had been sent on a mission. I had all the power and authority of Heaven behind me. Now, I don’t even have wings.” He looked up at Dean, sorrow written in every line of his face. “If there was _anything_ I could do to bring her back, I would.”

The ground plummeted away, opened like a sinkhole beneath Dean. He was falling, plunging into an abyss. He’d never climb out again. 

Sam’s hand settled heavily on his shoulder: a lifeline he wasn't yet sure he wanted to grab onto.

“Dean, I’m sorry.” Cas reached out, laid his hand on Ruthie’s forehead, and slowly drew his hand downward. When he lifted it, her eyes were closed. “She’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest. This one hurt. I'll be here to talk about it if you want. If you're still speaking to me.


	22. Chapter 22

Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder, but didn’t speak. His own grief was too close, too raw, to even begin trying to offer any words of comfort. For the second time in his life, he’d had to watch, helpless, pinned to a wall, while someone he loved was mauled to death by hellhounds. He’d never forgotten what Dean looked like that day. Now he’d never forget how Ruthie had looked on the floor of that chicken coop. Nor how she’d looked when they’d first arrived: burned and battered, hanging on the wall like a crucifix.

He wanted to kill something, to stab it over and over until he couldn’t raise his arm. He wanted to hold Ruthie and cry until he was too tired to breathe. He wanted to drink himself into oblivion. 

He couldn’t imagine how Dean must feel.

The whole chicken coop was on fire now. It hissed and crackled in the background. They all ignored it. 

A long moan behind him made Sam turn around. Father Murray was waking up. The priest squinted up at the sky, then grimaced and moaned again. His right hand went to the bloody gash in his shoulder.

After another concerned look at Dean, Cas stood and went to Father Murray. He crouched beside him and put two fingers to the man’s forehead. Familiar golden light flashed from the knife wounds and from each place the priest had stenciled a sigil.

When the light faded, Father Murray rubbed the bloody fabric of his black shirt. Then he lifted one arm and pulled back his sleeve. He stared at the spot where the light had shone, and ran his fingertips over the smooth skin. “You healed me,” he whispered. “I’ve been healed by an angel.” He blinked up at Cas with an expression of awe. “Thank you.”

Cas nodded at him, then came to stand beside Sam. Dean still knelt by Ruthie, as silent and unmoving as if he’d been turned to stone. 

Father Murray’s slow footsteps slid through the grass to join them. The priest walked tentatively out to Cas’s left, and stopped several feet from Ruthie. He stared down at her. He took a quick breath and opened his mouth, but only a short gurgle came out. His eyes welled up. He waited several moments before trying again. “The things he made me do…” His voice fractured. “The things he did to her with my hands…” He sank to his knees and buried his face in his palms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Even drowning in his own grief, Sam hurt for Father Murray. Sam knew what it was like to be used against your will, to hurt people, to feel another presence at the controls in your brain, pulling your strings like a puppet. To be forced to watch, powerless to stop it. 

“It’s not your fault,” Sam told him.

The four of them stood there in silence for a long time, standing and kneeling around Ruthie while the sunlight faded away. The fire died down, casting a flickering glow over them. Cornstalks swayed and rustled in a light breeze. A sharp-edged crescent moon appeared in the clear sky. 

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, square box. He looked at it for a minute before opening it. A delicate diamond ring glittered in the moonlight. 

Something sharp lodged in Sam’s throat. He remembered Ruthie’s last words—other than the ones directing Dean toward the hellhounds: “I should have said yes.” 

Dean lifted Ruthie’s left hand. He gently slid the diamond onto her ring finger. 

The sharp thing in his throat throbbed. This was wrong. It couldn’t end like this. He couldn’t let it. Dean deserved more. Ruthie deserved more. 

They hadn’t tried everything yet. 

He squeezed Dean’s shoulder once more, then headed toward the road.

“Where are you going?” Cas asked. 

“A crossroads.”

Dean’s head whipped around. “Like hell you are.”

“It’s okay. I want to do this.”

Dean stood and strode toward him, his face thunderous. “No.”

Sam stopped and waited for Dean to reach him. “Dean, there’s no other way. I want to do this for you. For Ruthie. At least let me try.”

“No, Sam! I’m not losing you, too.”

“Dean—”

“She’d never forgive me.”

“But—”

“It’s not happening. Just shut up.” Dean turned away, then spun back to him, eyes blazing, and jabbed a finger at Sam’s face. “No, first swear you won’t try to make a deal.”

Sam hesitated.

“Swear you won’t make a deal!” Desperation made Dean look crazy. Dangerous. The left side of his face glowed an ominous orange from the embers of the burned building.

Sam put his hands up. “Okay. Okay, I swear.”

Dean stared him down before turning away. This time, Sam noticed something sticking out of Dean’s waistband. A parchment scroll.

“The contract,” Sam said.

“What?” 

“Ruthie’s contract. Maybe we can find a loophole.”

Dean pulled out the scroll. He looked down at it in his hand. “That’s what I was thinking.” He stared, still not opening it. “But I also thought Cas could…” He closed his mouth.

A low murmuring drew their attention. Father Murray still knelt over Ruthie, but now he was speaking low, rhythmic words. He made the sign of the cross in the air over her body. 

Dean’s face hardened. “Unless your prayers have the juice to pull her soul outta Hell, you’re wasting your time.” 

The priest paused for a moment, his head bowed. Then he resumed his steady murmuring.

“Let it go,” Sam said in a low voice. “He’s just dealing with it the best way he knows how. Here.” He reached out and took the scroll from Dean’s hand. He unrolled it, searching for the section where Azar had written in Ruthie’s terms. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. Something, anything they could use to break the contract. To free Ruthie. 

He found the paragraph he was looking for. He traced the lines with a shaking finger. “You were right. He couldn’t touch you. ‘Neither in body nor soul.’” 

Dean’s lips pressed together. He waited.

Sam silently read the next line, and a heavy weight dropped into his stomach. He stared at the words until they blurred and swam around on the parchment. 

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam swallowed hard. “I can’t make a deal to get her out. No one can.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkled. He grabbed the contract and scanned it, pausing at the section where Azar had written in Ruthie’s terms. His brows contracted, low over his eyes. A grinding noise came from his teeth. “It’s final.” He rolled the scroll up tight and clenched it in his hand, glaring at the ground. He finally raised an anguished face to Sam. “How am I supposed to live with that?”

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was asking the same question of himself, and coming up empty. 

A rustling sound nearby pulled his attention away. He and Dean both looked to see Cas removing his trench coat. He bent down and covered Ruthie with it, pulling it up over her face. Her dark hair spilled out from under the collar.

Hot prickles stabbed at the backs of Sam’s eyes, but no more tears came. He must have run dry. Dean looked pale and stunned, as if he’d been punched in the throat.

Cas came over to them. He looked so weary; he seemed to have aged ten years. He nodded down at the scroll in Dean’s hand. “She wanted to protect you. To keep you from going back to Hell. You two were more important to her than anything.” He looked Sam in the eye, then Dean. “That’s how you’ll live with it. By knowing she’d want you to go on.”

Sam wanted to believe him. After all, they weren’t strangers to loss. They’d managed to move on after Dad. After Bobby. After Charlie. He wanted to see a future where he and Dean were okay, where every day wasn’t a raw, gaping, Ruthie-shaped hole that could never be filled. 

But Dad and Bobby and Charlie were all in Heaven now. 

And none of them had been wearing a diamond ring from Dean.

“Sam. Dean.”

Sam jolted and looked back at Cas. 

The angel glanced back at Father Murray and the trench coat-covered body. “You need to make a decision. Are we going to bury her? Or…?”

Sam flinched. So did Dean. Ruthie had earned a hunter’s funeral. They ought to be gathering wood from the nearby trees, building a pyre. But the thought of burning her, after Azar…

“We need shovels,” Dean said in a dead voice. 

Cas nodded. “I’ll get them.” He held out his hand for the car keys.

“Victory is sweet, isn’t it, boys?”

They spun around to see Crowley’s smug face.

He strolled toward them, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Azar is secure in his new enclosure, like a tiger in a zoo. My Lake is boiling merrily again. Not a bad day’s work.” He looked around the group, his smile slowly fading. “Not celebrating?” He glanced past Sam, Dean, and Cas, and spotted the priest kneeling beside Ruthie’s body. The trench coat didn’t cover the bottom of her white skirt or her bare feet. Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets. “Ah, yes. I heard. We took some collateral damage.”

The demon knife flashed in Dean’s hand; he lunged at Crowley. Sam threw an arm across his brother’s chest, slowing Dean down enough to step in front of him and hold him back. 

“You didn’t wait!” Dean roared.

“Wait?” Crowley repeated. “For him to barbecue me?”

“For Dean to get Azar to break the contract,” Cas said through gritted teeth. “Ruthie sold her soul.”

After a brief pause, Crowley said, “I see. For him, I suppose.” He gestured at Dean, who was still straining against Sam’s grasp. “I must not have heard you. Despite how effortless I made it look, ancient Persian is not my first language. I was rather focused on the spell. Which did work, I’d like to remind you.”

“Just get the hell out of here, Crowley,” Sam snapped over his shoulder. 

“Fine.”

“No, wait,” Dean said, and he stopped trying to push past Sam. He flipped the knife in his hand and held it out to Sam grip-first. When Sam hesitated, Dean shoved it toward him. “I won’t kill him.”

Sam took the knife and let Dean go. 

Dean strode over to Crowley. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna get me into Hell, just like you did with Cas. You’re gonna tell me where to find her. Then I’m getting her out of there.”

Crowley tipped his head back and folded his arms across his chest. “Am I?”

Dean stepped forward, leaning right into Crowley’s face. “Yeah, you are. You wanted our help on this job. You got it. You got everything you wanted. Azar’s alive and back in Hell. You owe us.”

For the first time, Sam felt a beat of hope. If anybody could pull this off, it was Dean. 

Crowley’s dark eyes slid from Dean to Sam and back while a slow smile built on his face. “Not a bad plan, Squirrel. There’s just one problem. It won’t work.”

Dean’s fists curled at his sides. “Why not?”

“Because by the time I get you there, she’ll be gone.”

Sam wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Gone? Gone where? Souls didn’t just leave Hell on their own.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked in a tone sharper than the demon blade. 

“You didn’t really think I would honor a single one of Azar’s contracts, did you?”

The ground seemed to rock under Sam’s feet. “But you said—”

“Yes, I said I’d keep them for myself.” He tossed a hand toward Ruthie. “I couldn’t let her think she could give _me_ orders. But I do have standards.” His eyes narrowed. “That deserter will never see any of those souls in Hell. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Sets an example for any others who might have delusions of grandeur.”

Dean stood very still, staring at Crowley. He was apparently as shell-shocked as Sam felt. 

“So…” Cas said, “if you’re canceling the contract, then her soul will be released from Hell, and go to Heaven.”

“That would be the usual result, yes.” Crowley was so casual, he could have been talking about the weather. 

Sam swallowed, thinking of how time works differently in Hell. “How long?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not long.” He studied Sam’s expression. “She’s not in the Lake, if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s a waiting area for everyone whose paperwork hasn’t been finalized. No worse than your average dentist’s office. I’m not a barbarian.” He looked over at Ruthie’s body again. “And I meant it: I do like her.”

Sam’s knees turned to gelatin; he nearly sank to the ground in relief. Ruthie wasn’t in Hell—not the real Hell, anyway. She wouldn’t be tortured anymore. She was going to Heaven. She wouldn’t be here with them, of course; they’d miss her every day. Dean would probably never let himself love another woman again. But he wouldn’t be tormented by knowing she’d gone to Hell for him. He wouldn’t be consumed with finding a way to get her out. 

Maybe he’d be okay. Eventually. 

“And the others?” Cas asked.

“Like I said. Azar won’t get a single one of those souls. All the contracts are null and void.”

Just like Ruthie wanted. 

Dean bowed his head. The rigid line of his back softened; his fists uncurled. The fight had gone out of him. 

Crowley unfolded his arms and held out his hands. “You’re welcome?”

No one answered. 

“Too soon?” he asked, then checked his watch. “Well. I expect she’s en route by now.” He scanned the night sky, as though expecting to see her rising toward Heaven like a shooting star in reverse. Then he watched Ruthie and Father Murray for a while. The priest was still murmuring over her body, either ignoring Crowley’s arrival, or so intent on his prayers he hadn’t noticed. 

“Moose? Squirrel?” Crowley waited for them both to look at him. He fixed first Sam, then Dean, with a meaningful gaze. “After tonight, you owe me _all_ the favors.”

Then he was gone. 

Crickets chirped in the woods at the edges of the field. Embers snapped; the priest’s voice was a low hum. They blended into something like music. A funeral hymn. 

Sam went to his brother. He faced him, put a hand on his shoulder. “She’s not in pain anymore.”

Dean stared past him, into the night. 

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “Dean, it’s time.” He held out his hand for the keys. He needed a shovel in his hand, needed hard, mindless physical labor. Dean needed it more. 

“Why ‘after tonight?’” Dean still stared out at the darkness.

“What?”

Green eyes, flickering with the reflection of dying flames, met Sam’s. “Crowley was never going to honor those contracts. He was planning to cancel them all along, even before Ruthie.”

“Yeah?”

“So what do we owe him for?”

Sam wasn’t following. “Dean, I don’t—”

A startled exclamation burst from Father Murray, cutting off his prayers. He snatched the trench coat, whipping it off of Ruthie and throwing it aside. 

Sam’s heart launched itself into his throat. He sprinted to Ruthie, reaching her just after Dean. They dropped to their knees beside her, Dean across from him. Cas was at Dean’s side an instant later. The three of them stared at the priest, who was hyperventilating. 

“I could have sworn… I was certain…” His blue eyes bulged as he stammered.

“What?” Dean demanded. 

Father Murray pointed a shaking finger at Ruthie’s limp hand. “Movement. Just here. The tiniest movement, under the coat…” His voice trailed off. He glanced over his shoulder at the long rectangle of glowing wreckage. Then he turned back and watched the low light jump and dance along Ruthie’s still form. He swallowed. “But perhaps the light…” His face flushed a deep pink. His shoulders slumped. 

Sam bowed his head and let out a heavy breath. Dean pressed his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes.

Pulling the coat off had disrupted Ruthie’s hair. The breeze lifted several wisps now, making them wave over her face. Another illusion of motion. Of life. 

Her lips parted; her chest rose in a deep breath. 

A miniature bomb exploded in the center of Sam’s chest. He stared, not believing his own eyes, not daring to breathe. He tried to say Dean’s name, but only a choked sound came out.

Dean lowered his hand.

Ruthie opened her eyes. 

Sam watched, breathless, as they looked at each other. Dean’s eyes shone, wide and watery in the moonlight. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His expression walked a tightrope, balancing precariously between hope and disbelief. He stared, drinking in her dark eyes as though they were a mirage, and if he so much as blinked they’d close again forever. 

Dean’s mouth moved, trying to form a word. Finally, a single hoarse question: “Ruthie?”

Her hand went to her throat, fingers skimming the smooth, uninjured skin. Her brows rose up and together, filling her forehead with deep lines. “No!” she moaned. “You couldn’t. You weren’t allowed.” 

“I didn’t,” Dean said. “I didn’t.”

Her eyes jumped to Sam, full of accusation.

He shook his head. “We didn’t,” he told her, amazed he was able to force words through the intense pressure in his throat. “Crowley. He voided your contract. He canceled them all.” And arranged a detour for Ruthie’s soul, which ought to have gone directly to Heaven. Sam never expected to feel such gratitude to a demon, especially Crowley. But if the King of Hell were still standing here, Sam would have bear hugged him.

Ruthie’s confused gaze flicked back to Dean. Her expression mirrored his: hope mingled with doubt. Fear that what she was seeing was too good to be true. She reached up with a trembling hand, and touched his face.

Dean jolted. The doubt shattered. A low sound came from his throat. He pulled her into his arms and held her, rocking slightly on his knees, one hand behind her head, his face buried in her hair. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck. 

Sam found he hadn’t used up all his tears after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say what you wanna say. Let the words fall out.


	23. Chapter 23

Ruthie held on tight while Dean rocked her. His breath warmed her neck; his arms were solid and real around her. She still didn’t understand how she’d come back, why she was in her body again, on earth. Or how they’d managed to get away from Azar. But for the moment, she chose to focus on the feel of Dean’s hair beneath her fingers, his hand cradling her head. 

Eventually, he stopped rocking. His arms tightened once, then he drew back, drinking in her face with thirsty eyes. 

A big hand settled on her shoulder. She turned to see Sam kneeling beside her, his face radiating pure joy. 

“Sam!” She threw her arms around his neck. She didn’t deserve for him to look at her that way. He hugged her tight while she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” he murmured. “It’s okay.” 

She shook her head and pulled back to look at him. “I shouldn’t have made you promise me. I never should have told you I’d leave. I didn’t mean it.”

Sam’s smile never wavered. “I guess that makes us both liars.”

He forgave her. She should have known he would. She returned his smile, then looked back at Dean. The sight of his face filled her with fresh wonder. She’d been so certain she’d never see it again. 

Red stains on his left shoulder caught her eye; his shirt was torn. She reached out to examine him. “You’re hurt.”

His gaze followed her hand down to his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Another hand touched his shoulder, and shimmering golden rays flashed from the gashes beneath the shredded fabric of his shirt. When they faded, Dean didn’t even look up at the angel. His eyes traveled back to Ruthie’s, as though they couldn’t bear to stay away. “Thanks.”

She tore her gaze from Dean. Cas was smiling down at her, looking immensely relieved. “Hello, Ruthie.”

Her hand went to her throat. “You fixed me again. Thank you, Cas.”

He lowered his gaze modestly. “I did what I could.”

A shaky intake of breath to her right. She turned toward it, and immediately clutched at Dean, letting out a frantic cry. 

Father Murray leaned away, looking stricken.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, holding her tight. “Azar’s gone. Back to Hell, for good.”

Ruthie heard what he’d said; she did understand, but couldn’t make herself release her grip on his shirt. As though her body’s recent memories were overruling her brain. She closed her eyes. She focused again on Dean’s arms around her, and repeated his words to herself. _“Azar’s gone. He’s gone for good.”_

“I’m sorry,” Father Murray said. “I’ll go.”

She looked again and he was standing up, turning to walk away. “No, it’s okay.”

He turned toward her hesitantly, as if he feared making eye contact would send her cringing away again.

“It wasn’t your fault.” She remembered the awful red burn on his wrist, and Azar’s bragging about how the priest had screamed. The man must have endured as much pain as she had. Ruthie reached out to him. “Are you alright?”

Father Murray took a slow step toward her, then took her hand. “Yes. I am now.” His chin quivered. “Ruthie, I’m so—”

“No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t you.” She gave his hand a squeeze before releasing it. 

A light breeze rustled the corn leaves in the field beside them. A bright crescent moon shone overhead. The grass was cool and soft, tickling her bare feet. Dean held her as though he never intended to let her go. 

She still couldn’t understand. How was it possible she was here, breathing? Sam’s explanation didn’t make sense—or at least it was incomplete. She needed to understand, to know whether the hellhounds would come for her again. The thought made her shiver, shrinking into Dean’s embrace. 

“Sam, you said Crowley canceled my contract?”

“He canceled all of them.”

“So, the others, Manuel, and the woman from the bar…?”

“They’re safe. It’s over.”

She let out a shaky breath. No one else would have hellhounds come for them in ten years. No one else would be torn open, or have their soul dragged to Hell. Her stomach twisted at the memory. One thing still didn’t make any sense. “But…I _died_.”

Sam flinched. “Yes. But Crowley sent your soul back here instead of to Heaven.”

Ruthie tried to absorb this. “ _Crowley?_ ”

“He said he really likes you. And that we owe him.”

“You said you wanted to be an honorary Winchester,” Dean said with a small smile. “Welcome to the club.”

A sharp pang shot through her chest. “Dean, I’m so sorry. I should have said yes.”

He caught her left hand and pressed his thumb against her ring finger. “So say yes.”

She looked down and saw the ring, already there, glittering in the moonlight.

Sam stood up and cleared his throat. When Cas didn’t react, Sam grabbed him by the elbow and towed him away. Father Murray hurried after them. 

Ruthie stared down at the little diamond. How had it ended up on her finger? 

The obvious answer sent stinging tears rushing to her eyes. Dean had given it to her after she died. When he’d thought she was gone forever, he’d still wanted her to have it. To wear his ring. 

She didn’t try to hold back the tears. They fell freely, blurring the diamond so it shimmered under the stars. “I was trying to protect you. But Father Murray was right: it wasn’t fair to you. After Monica, I begged you to stop holding me at arm’s length, and then I did the same exact thing to you.” 

She raised her eyes to meet his, fearful of seeing anger or hurt in them. But there was none. Something warm swelled in her chest, and the tears flowed faster. What had she ever done to deserve him?

His face swam. “I know I hurt you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

A small smile spread across his lips. 

“What?” she asked.

“Usually I’m the one screwing up. This is kinda nice for a change.”

A sound that was half laugh, half cry choked out of her.

Dean reached out and cupped her face in his hands. “Hey. How many times have you forgiven me? For way worse? It’s okay. It’s behind us.”

For the second time since she’d come back to life, she threw her arms around his neck and held on tight. He pulled her in close, rocking her again. He stroked her hair until she finished crying. Then he drew back and wiped her cheeks with his thumbs. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Everything was more than okay now. 

Silent seconds slipped past. Ruthie could have spent the whole warm night there, just looking at him. 

Finally, Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Alright. The suspense is killing me. Are you gonna marry me or not?”

“Yes!” Ruthie laughed and admired her ring again. “Yes.”

“Good.” All traces of joking fell away. He took her face in his hands again and kissed her, long, slow, and deep. 

“Yes,” she murmured against his lips. “Yes. Yes.”

She kissed him and told him yes, over and over, there in the soft grass under the stars.

 

* * *

 

Sam ventured another glance at the edge of the clearing. Still kissing. He turned back to Cas, who was sitting in the passenger seat. “Might be a while longer.”

Cas gave him a tired smile. “I’m not in a hurry.”

Father Murray still looked awfully pale in the back seat. “You okay?” Sam asked.

The priest raised wide eyes to him. “A miracle,” he whispered. “Another miracle. Not just a healing—” he broke off, shooting an apologetic look at Cas— “but a _resurrection_.”

Sam nodded. Father Murray was a living reminder that most people had never seen someone come back from the dead. 

“I’ve heard of this happening. But I never thought I’d see it with my own eyes.” He paused. “And you say it was…the demon? He brought her back?”

“Yeah.” Sam was still stunned about that himself. Crowley had a soft spot. Who knew?

The priest crossed himself and started praying under his breath again. 

Sam hid his smile by facing front again. He folded his arms and settled into his seat. He still felt a little shaky, even knowing everything was okay now. What a day. He had a feeling they’d all sleep hard tonight. And tomorrow… “Hey, Father?”

“Yes?”

“Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Well, no. I thought I’d spend the day in reflection and prayer. I need to process everything that’s happened today.”

“Sure, I can understand that.” Sam paused a moment. “I was wondering if you might have time to do something for us.”

“For you, of course. What is it?”

“Officiating a wedding.”

Father Murray’s mouth dropped open. He darted a look at Dean and Ruthie; they were still intertwined. “So soon?” he asked.

Sam knew his brother. He wouldn’t want to wait. And Ruthie wasn’t the kind of girl who’d want to plan a big, elaborate wedding. Anyway, who would they invite? The entire guest list was sitting right here in the Impala. He nodded. 

Father Murray sat back. “Sam, I’m honored. But, well, your brother and Ruthie aren’t Catholic. Marriage is a sacrament, and the Church has policies regarding…”

The priest trailed off as Cas turned toward him with a frown. 

“I…that is…” he stammered, turning pink. “I’m sure I can make an exception.” He held a hand out toward Cas. “I mean, Castiel, if _you_ approve…?”

Cas stared Father Murray down. “I do approve.”

The priest let out a nervous little laugh. “Who am I to disagree with an angel?”

“It’s settled, then.” Sam leaned against the window and tried to get comfortable. Might as well get a little sleep. No knowing how long Dean and Ruthie would stay out there. And tomorrow would be another big day.

 

* * *

 

Sam stood a few steps from Dean, hands clasped behind his back. They’d each worn their suits—Ruthie had told them that tuxes weren’t necessary. Father Murray stood on Dean’s other side, holding his Bible and a little booklet containing his lines for the ceremony. Sam admired the soft green light filtering through the circular curtain of willow vines surrounding them. Like a natural tent. The bubbling stream behind them provided the music. A perfect spot for the occasion. He’d been impressed with Dean for finding it. His brother, a romantic. Wonders never ceased. 

Rumbling, popping noises approached through the woods. An old green station wagon appeared through the swaying vines. Then a grating, mechanical squeal. Sam exchanged a look with Dean, who rolled his eyes. “Needs new rotors,” Dean said. “I told him days ago. Haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sam told him. Dean usually took care of auto repairs, but he’d be unavailable for the next few days.

The car squeaked to a stop; the engine went silent. Sam caught a glimpse of a tan trench coat climbing out and going to the passenger side. The door opened, then shut. Two shadows stood side by side and approached the green curtain. Sam and Dean both stood up straighter.

Cas pushed the vines aside, and Ruthie appeared. Half of her dark hair was swept back; the rest spilled over one shoulder. Two little white flowers bloomed just over her ear. Her knee-length white dress was elegant in its simplicity: sleeveless, lacy from the waist up and flowy from the waist down. Her olive skin needed no jewelry besides her pentagram brand. A permanent symbol of what she’d overcome. Of where she belonged—and who she belonged with. 

Cas offered her his arm, with that familiar crooked smile on his face. She took it, without taking her eyes off Dean. Cas walked her forward, down the soft, grassy aisle. 

Sam looked at his brother. Dean’s eyes shone, locked onto his bride. He stood tall, shoulders back, looking…not just happy. Nothing so temporary as that. No, Sam realized: he looked content. Confident. At peace with himself and the world. 

Sam couldn’t remember ever seeing him look that way before. 

He swallowed down the lump threatening to close off his throat. 

Cas and Ruthie reached them. The angel took her hand and placed it in Dean’s. Dean moved to stand beside her. They faced the priest, who began, “Dearly beloved…”

Sam didn’t really hear the words. He just watched the calm confidence radiate from his brother, and the joy sparkle around his sister. When Father Murray said, “Man and wife,” Sam felt as though his chest wasn’t big enough to contain his heart. Dean pulled Ruthie into his arms and kissed her. Sam clapped while Cas beamed. 

When they finally separated, Cas said, “Congratulations. I’m very happy for you both.”

“Thank you, Cas.” Ruthie kissed him on the cheek. 

“So, where’s the honeymoon?” Sam asked. 

Dean glanced over at the nearby Impala, whose rear windshield read “Just Married,” courtesy of Sam and a bar of motel soap. Then Dean looked to Ruthie, who shrugged. “I think we’ll just drive south until we hit water,” he said.

“Sounds good to me,” she agreed. 

Sam held out his hand to his brother. Dean shook it, then pulled him down into a tight hug. After a second, Dean clapped him on the back and started to pull away. 

“Dean, I—”

“Hey, you know the rule. No chick flick moments.” But Dean’s glistening eyes betrayed him.

Sam held in a laugh and shook his head. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Ruthie reached her arms up to Sam; he bent down to hug her. She pressed her cheek against his and whispered in his ear, “Now you’re my brother for real.” 

There was that feeling again, like his heart was ballooning, filling his entire ribcage. She squeezed him tight and gave him a peck on the cheek. He kissed her forehead and straightened up. 

Dean and Ruthie headed for the Impala. “See you in a week!” Ruthie called.

“Or two,” Dean said.

As they backed away, Dean lifted his chin toward Sam in goodbye. Ruthie waved, her smile competing with the sun. Sam waved back until the willow vines slid over the windshield and swung back into place.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and blew out a big breath. He wondered how long this grin would stay fixed on his face. He’d probably still be grinning tonight in his sleep.

As he, Cas, and Father Murray climbed into the old green station wagon, Sam remembered the first time he’d met Ruthie. She’d walked up to him in the pharmacy, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Are you Sam?” she asked.

He was too exhausted and too worried to hedge. “Yes.”

She put a comforting hand on his arm. “Dean’s okay.”

He nearly sank to the floor in relief.

He’d never forgotten it, that moment. She’d been like a messenger from heaven, sent to save Dean—several times over. Which meant she’d saved Sam, too. 

It hadn’t always been easy. Things rarely were in this life. But they’d fought through. They’d been to Hell and back, and they’d come out stronger than ever. 

Sam’s bursting heart told him the worst was behind them. 

He guided the station wagon over the bumpy trail through the woods. Cas reached over to fiddle with the radio dial.

“Hey,” Sam told him with a grin as he swatted the angel’s hand away and switched to the local classic rock station. “Driver picks the music.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, friends, at the end. And on National Pi(e) Day, too! This series has been a pure joy to write. I want to thank each one of you who've commented and shared in these stories with me. Don't be strangers! (And new readers, please don't be shy! I'd love to hear from you.)
> 
> I have no current plans for more SPN stories, but you can find my novel, Second Life, on Amazon. Message me for more details.
> 
> Be well, my friends, and carry on!


	24. Author's Note

Greetings my dears! How I've missed you. This is the best way I could think of to let you all know that I'll be at the Denver SPN convention this August 17-19. If any of you will be there, please leave a comment somewhere so we can try to connect!

I'm getting this series printed and bound so the cast can sign it during autographs. I'm nervous as heck about it and could use some moral support. But mostly I would just love to put faces (and real names) to you lovely folks!

I trust you are well and happy, and I really hope I'll see some of you next month!

xoxo

-HG


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